His hand caught her wrist.
"You don't have to do this."
"I know." She didn't stop. Worked the cloth along the ridge of his collarbone, down the curve of his shoulder, across the ink stain on his forearm. "I want to."
The words hung between them, and she hoped he would understand what she was saying. NotI want to clean youbutI want to choose this. I want to give something instead of only receiving.
His hand released her wrist.
Mab worked in silence. She rinsed the cloth, wrung it, returned to his skin. The water was cooling but still warm enough, and she learned the topography of him with each pass. The smooth stretch of unmarked skin along his right flank. The rough texture of the scar tissue crossing his ribs. The way his stomach muscles tightened when she dragged the cloth lower, toward the dark hair that trailed from his navel.
She hesitated.
"Keep going." His voice was rough. "Unless you want to stop."
Mab dipped the cloth again. Her hands didn't shake, which surprised her, given what she was about to do. She wrung the water out slowly, watching the droplets fall back into the basin, and then she turned and knelt in front of him.
His breath hissed between his teeth.
She pressed the cloth to his thigh. Started there, where it was safe, where the muscle was thick and warm beneath her hands. She worked the fabric up toward his hip, across the crease where his leg met his body, and his cock twitched.
"Mab."
She didn't answer. Moved the cloth to his other thigh, gave it the same attention, the same slow drag of warm cotton over scarred skin. His hands hung at his sides, fingers flexing, and she could see the effort it cost him not to touch her.
She rinsed the cloth one more time.
When she wrapped it around him, he made a sound she'd never heard from him before. Low and broken, somewhere between a groan and a growl. His cock was fully hard now, theridged length of him hot even through the wet fabric, and she stroked once from base to tip.
His whole body shuddered.
"Enough." The word came out strangled. His hand closed over hers, stilling the motion. "Mab. Enough."
She looked up at him. From this angle he was enormous, a wall of green skin and muscle blocking out the firelight, and his eyes were molten amber. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No." He pulled her hand away from him, pulled the cloth from her grip, tossed it somewhere behind her. "You did everything right. That's the problem."
"I don't understand."
He hauled her to her feet. His hands were not gentle about it, fingers digging into her arms hard enough that she'd have new bruises tomorrow. She didn't mind. She was starting to understand that his roughness was its own kind of care.
"I said tonight I would hold you." His voice was strained, the words coming through gritted teeth. "Not fuck you until you can't walk. You're sore. You need rest."
"What if I don't want rest?"
His eyes flared. For a moment she thought he would give in, would push her back onto the bed and take what they both wanted. His cock was pressed against her belly, hard and hot, and she could feel the pulse of his heartbeat through it.
Then he exhaled. A long, controlled breath that seemed to cost him something.
"You'll have me tomorrow. And the day after. And every day until you're sick of me." He lifted her, carried her to the bed, set her down on the sheets that still smelled of orange peel and sex. "Tonight you sleep."
"And you?"
"I'll survive." He climbed in beside her, arranged her body against his with the same matter-of-fact possessiveness he'd shown all day. Her back to his chest. His arm heavy across her waist. His cock pressed against the curve of her backside, still hard, and she felt him twitch when she squirmed.
"Stop moving."
