Page 98 of Prize for the King
“Hot bath should help.” He fiddles with the tap until steaming water pours out. “I’ll leave the door open. Shout if you need me.”
When I’m ready for the bath, I stand in front of it, biting the inside of my lip. It’s big, far too high for me to climb into in my current state.
“Magnar?” I ask hesitantly. It feels presumptuous to make myhusband, the king, serve me, but he’s the only one awake.
He grunts, the sheets rustling, and he pads in on bare feet a moment later. “Yes, darling?”
“I can’t get in on my own,” I admit, looking away.
“Of course.”
He lifts me gently and lowers me into the water, and I sigh in bliss as the heat eases into my aching muscles. Magnar gives me a tired smile and pats my head.
“You tend to fall asleep in the tub, don’t you? I’ll join you in a minute.”
He goes over to the toilet, and I watch him with tired eyes, my thoughts slow and lazy. But when he lifts the lid and a loud, splashing sound fills my ears, I sit up and gape.
“Are you… relieving yourself?”
He snorts under his breath. “Pissing, love. Say it for me. ‘Are you pissing, Magnar?’ Go on.”
I groan, shaking my head. “I’m too tired for this! Ugh, fine. Are you pissing, Magnar?”
His arm shakes briefly, and he bends to lower the lid, then pulls the chain to flush. He turns to me with a pleased smile and washes his hands in the washbasin.
“Yes, love, I was pissing. Scoot over.”
I push away from the narrow end of the tub, and he gets in, leaning back comfortably as he pulls me into him. I sit between his spread legs, the back of my head leaning on his chest, and he purrs with pleasure.
“Good wife. Stay.”
I roll my eyes with a smile. “So I’m a dog now?”
“Mmm. My sweet bitch in heat.”
“What!” I turn with outrage, slapping both hands on his meaty chest. “How dare you insult me!”
His smile falls, and he studies me for a moment. “Do you truly feel insulted or do you only believe you should be?” he asks seriously. “If it’s the former, I’ll never speak to you this way again. I hoped you might like it. Be honest.”
I huff, looking away as I think. Magnar waits, and slowly, I realize I don’t feel humiliated. His manner was affectionate, and there was nothing scornful in his voice even if the words were dirty.
“What you said was insulting,” I say carefully. “Your manner wasn’t.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Mm-hmm. And?”
I flush when his eyes turn a bit mocking, though he still waits patiently for me to make my decision.
“I guess… When we’re mating, I won’t mindmilderinsults,” I mumble, remembering his crude behavior and words from last night. I didn’t mind any of that at all—indeed, he made me feel hot and flustered.
“Understood. May I prevail upon you to say ‘fucking’ instead of ‘mating’, love?”
“You may not.”
“Very well.”
His eyes soft and hooded, he strokes my hair that’s probably a frizzy, horrid mess. I straddle his thighs, craning my neck to see his face.
“How do you sound so vulgar sometimes, and at other times, so sophisticated?” I ask.
