Page 24 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“I’m afraid I don’t. Whatever instincts seem to come to me, they don’t involve washing you.”
He peered over his shoulder. “Shall I turn around and demonstrate?”
He couldn’t see all of her, but he saw enough to know she paled. Her memories might be questionable, but she seemed to know what was inappropriate.
“No need. I’m certain I can deduce the proper way to do it.”
Taking satisfaction in her answer, he faced forward. Waited. Expectation heightened his senses. He didn’t bother to analyze why he wanted her touch. He only knew that he did.
The water splashed as her hands dipped into it. He heard the faint sound of soap slipping over skin, imagined her small hands rubbing at the hard ball. His body tightened, stiffened in anticipation. When was the last time he’d anticipated a woman’s touch with a burning need that threatened to reheat the water? Why was he anticipating hers?
Not because he desired her, because God knew he didn’t. But because of what her actions portended, theknowledge that would always be between them. The weight of it would keep her nose from jutting into the air, her chin from lifting.
Then the touch came, so different from her earlier exploration of the ink. Not a finger outlining, tracing, but fingers and palms, pads and heels, perhaps even a grazing of wrists. Slowly gliding over his shoulders, pressing into his muscles as though she were as fascinated with them as she was with the tattoo. It took all his resolve not to flex his shoulders, bunch his muscles.
Not to lay his head on his knees and simply glory in the enticing caress.
He’d expected her to be quick about it, but she took her time, skimming her hands over skin that suddenly seemed incredibly sensitive, incredibly aware. He barely noticed when he washed his own body. It was a task to be completed. A vigorous scrubbing intended to remove the filth from his flesh and his heritage from his soul. Her touch was lighter, more tender, and yet it seemed to cleanse more deeply.
He swallowed hard. He’d not expected that.
Over his shoulders she went, again and again and again. In circles, figure eights, up and down, down and up, side to side. A corner of his mouth hitched up as he realized she was stalling.
“As lovely as that feels,” he said, striving hard to keep the laughter from his voice, “my back encompasses more than my shoulders.”
“Yes, well, they just seemed particularly dirty.”
Not likely when he bathed every evening, and sometimes in the morning as well, depending on the night he’d had. Definitely tomorrow morning. He wondered if he should tell her before he left so she could ponder on it through the long hours before his return. Or should he just surprise her with the chore the moment he arrived?
Surprise. Surprises were always fun. Her eyes would widen, her mouth would part ... it would all be so delicious. Besides, he didn’t want her to consider leaving while he was away. He needed to ensure she felt safe so he would find her here when he entered his residence shortly after dawn.
“Should I use a brush?” she asked, and he heard the hope in her voice.
“No, the dragon requires a special touch.” He didn’t know why he’d said that. Her touch wasn’t special, but even as he thought it he knew it to be a lie. He’d never had the caress of a lady, an aristocrat. He’d limited his sexual explorations to commoners, to those whose roots mirrored his. He wasn’t about to taint a lady.
In spite of the fact that his family and their friends treated him as an equal, he knew he wasn’t. Not really. He was his own man, proud of his accomplishments, but he didn’t have a history of service to the Crown, men of noble birth, women of strong character behind him. He didn’t come from noble stock. He came from pain, blood, murder.
Her hands left him. He heard the swishing of the soap. She would be appalled when she learned the truth. He tried to envision the satisfaction, the sight of her stunned expression, but then she was touching him again, and all he seemed capable of was becoming lost in the sensations of silken skin over slick flesh. She possessed no calluses, no scars, no rough edges. Her hands were velvet, softer than any linen he’d ever had next to his flesh.
Women had stroked his back, of course, but it happened in the shadows and they were coarse, with him for one purpose: pleasure. Theirs more than his. They had no interest in leisurely exploring what he had no interest in revealing. Theirs was a mating with him giving far more than he received in an effort to wash away the sins of his father.
Her fingers dipped below the waterline, stroking the dragon’s lower tail, stroking his buttocks. A groan, deep and feral, escaped through his clenched teeth.
Her hands flew out of the bathwater, raining droplets over his shoulders, over the floor.
“I think I’m finished,” she said, a slight quaking in her voice that matched the tremors cascading through his still form.
He had not expected to be so affected by her, didn’t want to be. But he was as hard as marble, aching with hunger barely leashed. He suspected when he unclenched his hands from the sides of the tub, he was going to discover impressions of his fingers in the copper.
“Yes,” he ground out. “You can see to my dinner now.”
The door opened and closed so quickly that he was surprised she’d had time to pass through it. He submerged himself. He required cold water, frigid water, ice. A trip to the Arctic.
Good Lord, he could still feel her touch. How was that possible? She was gone, but it was almost as though she had brought the dragon to life. It was breathing fire, not at all happy that she’d left without providing him with surcease. He didn’t even like her. It was pure lust. A man’s carnal needs. Any woman could have brought him to this state of agony. It had been far too long since he’d had a guest in his bed.
Too much work and not enough play. He could remedy that easily enough.
He came up out of the water, searched for and found the soap. Scrubbing at his body, he fought not to envision her touching all of him in the way she had of bringing each nerve ending to life. His arms, his chest, his legs, his feet—his feet! When had he ever cared about his feet? Cupping him, squeezing—
