Page 75 of Bride of Fire
She saw his shoulders rise and fall, as if he prepared for battle. At last, with a grim countenance and clenched fists, he came to the tub to oblige her.
Her heart thrummed like a hummingbird’s wings when she handed him the wet rag. She leaned forward to clasp her knees and grant him access to her back.
At first, his motions were minimal and pragmatic.
Kneeling beside the tub, he moved her hair to one side.
Then he scrubbed lightly at the place between her shoulder blades, working his way gradually down her spine to the middle of her back. Moving a few inches to the left, he repeated his movements.
But when he shifted again, his circles with the cloth slowed, and Jenefer could feel his hot breath on her shoulder.
His breath kindled something inside her. Something that made her blood flow hot. Something that made her bones as liquid as honey.
She closed her eyes, resting her forehead on her knees.
He lowered the rag into the water again, then pressed it against the blade of her shoulder, letting the water drizzle down her spine.
The only sounds in the chamber were the soft plashing of the bath, the quiet crackle of the fire, and her sigh of passion.
Slowly, gently, he swept the sopping rag across her skin, awakening every inch. Then he delved beneath the water, letting the rag trespass across her lower back and farther, along the curve of her buttocks.
She hardly dared to breathe. She bit her lip as an intense twinge sparked between her thighs, heating her entire body like a glowing coal.
The sensation of his breath on the back of her neck made every hair stand on end. And when he placed a tender kiss there, her sigh was almost a moan.
Releasing the rag, he tangled his hand gently in her hair and pulled her head back until she turned her face up to his. The smoldering need she saw in his eyes reflected her own.
She licked her lips, waiting for him to extinguish the fire there.
Chapter 37
Morgan knew he was walking straight into the fires of Hell.
The lass was his captive, not his consort.
What if she was a virgin?
If he did anything to compromise her virtue, there would be no forgiveness from her clan.
And yet the sight of her—wet and hot and eager, licking her lips in anticipation, looking up at him with smoky lust—made him forget reason.
Just one kiss, he told himself. Yet even as he articulated that lie, he was already engaging in a second kiss. And a third.
Her lips were not only welcoming. They were demanding.
Every kiss became more and more insistent, until he lost count of them.
She threaded her fingers through the wet strands of his hair, drawing him closer. She slanted her mouth across his again and again, feasting on him with ravenous hunger.
Before he could catch his breath, she locked her arms around his neck, clinging to him with a desperation born of desire.
She arched up toward him, and the sensation of her supple breasts sliding over his chest, her tight nipples grazing his skin, wrenched a groan from him.
Casting caution to the winds and damning himself for a fool, he plunged his arms into the water, delved his hands beneath her bottom, and scooped her out of the bath.
The divine, slippery curve of her buttocks and the sleek legs she immediately wrapped around him did nothing to dissuade him from his purpose.
Nor did the trail of water he left as he carried his beautiful, dripping prize to the bed.
