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“You don’t need to make excuses.”
“It would have been the obvious thing, though, right? Whoever he is, I have an advantage over him, something I can do that he can’t. And what do I do? I forget all about it and just stare at him. I used to live close to demons, and I wasn’t scared of them. Sure, I kept my distance. Who wouldn’t? But I wasn’t scared of them. They were just something to be avoided. And now I’m freaking out over one man.”
I shook my head, convinced I must have gotten water in my ear. “I thought for a moment you said something about demons.”
“I did.” Baxter began to soap himself. “But that’s a story for another day. One you should get Calisto to tell. He’s got more experience with them than I do. One of them, anyway.”
“Right.”
His gaze dropped to where my cock had expressed its appreciation for his naked body. I grimaced. “Sorry.”
He laughed. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t get hard. I didn’t exactly invite you in here for a chat.”
“No?”
“No.” He pulled me closer, slick bodies fitting together. “Thank you for coming to my rescue tonight. It meant a lot.”
“You’d have done the same.”
“I would,” he said, something electric passing between us. “And that kind of scares me so early in our relationship.”
“Me too,” I admitted. “Especially when I’ve kissed a lot of frogs.”
Baxter smiled. “I promise I’m not a frog.” He flicked wet hair out of his eyes. “Is this where I’m supposed to say something about you finding your prince, because I don’t know if I can manage that without throwing up.”
Instead of answering, I turned him to face the shower wall, my gaze roaming down the length of his muscled back to the swell of his firmly shaped arse. I’d planned to say something provocative—something to distract Baxter from tonight’s events. But my mouth clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. “Where were you stabbed? You don’t have a scar.”
The slight tension in his shoulders told me it wasn’t a question he’d expected. He exhaled, relaxing at the same time. “I know. It’s strange. Like I borrowed someone else’s body, only it looks the same.” He reached back with his left hand, pressing it to his lower back. “As far as I can remember, it was here.”
When his hand fell away, I replaced it with my own, fingertips tracing unblemished skin as hot water rained down on us. “Would you rather have a scar?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes it feels like an elaborate fantasy I made up. At least a scar would be…”
“Grounding,” I finished for him. “Proof you weren’t mad.”
“Yeah.”
I crouched, replacing fingers with lips against the same spot. Baxter let out a little sigh. “Tell me about historical figures with scars.”
I smiled, my mouth lingering on skin someone had once dared to desecrate with a knife. “Historical figures as foreplay. I’d call you kinky, but I think you’ve found my level.”
Baxter’s laugh was low and throaty. “Go on. Give it to me. I can take it.”
The double meaning wasn’t lost on me, my erection throbbing. “Nelson, of course. He’s well known for having lost an eye and an arm in naval battles. Van Gogh and his ear, or should I say the lack of it.” My mouth slid lower, from back to buttock. “A lot of famous warriors had scars gained in battle. Alexander the Great. Fidel Castro. Napoleon.” I paused, giving Baxter time to comment on Napoleon being mentioned again, but he didn’t.
“Abraham Lincoln had scars from wrestling injuries in his youth.” I pulled his arse cheeks apart, eyeing the prize that lay before me. “Tsar Nicholas II bore visible scars from assassination attempts.”
Baxter arched his back slightly, and I accepted the invitation, my next words spoken with my lips mere millimeters from the sensitive skin of Baxter’s hole. “Julius Caesar reportedly had many combat scars, but none on his back. Roman writers cited it as proof of his bravery.”
“Enough talk,” Baxter said hoarsely.
“You were the one who―”
“Lake.” Both a warning and a plea. I listened, abandoning the conversation and focusing on giving him the rim job of his life.
One of us turned off the shower eventually, but I couldn’t have said who. We didn’t bother drying, tumbling onto the bed in a tangle of wet limbs and fused mouths. There was no talking, just gasps and groans.
Somehow, amid the chaos, Baxter had remembered to pack condoms and lube. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been that grateful for anything. If I hadn’t already been kissing him, I would have done so out of gratitude.
