Wicked Deeds on a Winter’s Night (Immortals After Dark #4)(28)
Author: Kresley Cole

"Bats mean fewer mosquitoes. And then there’s also the bathtub for you to enjoy." He waved her attention to an area deeper within. A subterranean stream with a sandy beach meandered through the cavern. Her eyes widened. A small pool sat off to the side, not much larger than an oversize Jacuzzi, and laid out along its edge were her toiletries, her washcloth, and her towel. Her bag – filled with all of her clean clothes – was off just to the side.

Mari cried out at the sight, doubling over to yank at her bootlaces. Freed of her boots, she hopped forward on one foot then the other as she snatched off her socks. She didn’t pause until she was about to start on the button fly of her shorts.

She glanced up to find him watching her with a gleam of expectation in his eyes. "You will be leaving, of course."

"Or I could help you."

"I’ve had a bit of practice bathing myself and think I can stumble my way through this."

"But you’re tired. Why no’ let me help? Now that I’ve two hands again, I’m eager to use them."

"You give me privacy or I go without."

"Verra well." He shrugged. "I’ll leave – because your going without is no’ an option. Call me if you need me."

Too easy. She knew he’d capitulated readily, but the call of the water was irresistible. She stripped, throwing her shorts, underthings, tank top, and used-up patch all into a pile to be put on the fire later. Then she stepped in, moaning with bliss.

The water wasn’t hot, but it was lukewarm and felt delicious in the humid air of the cave. She ducked under, then swam up to the edge. He’d thought of everything – toothbrush, toothpaste, her shampoo and conditioner. She loaded her toothbrush, then brushed, lavishing every tooth.

After that, she poured lotion soap into her washcloth and scrubbed it over every inch of her body. She’d just finished the second wash and rinse of her hair when MacRieve strolled in, barefoot and wearing nothing but a worn pair of jeans and the medallion at his neck.

She ducked down until the water hit her neck. "You said I’d have privacy!" she sputtered. "You promised." She was by no means a shy person, but she also didn’t see any reason to tease him with the goods he would never be getting.

"Aye, and I kept my promise." In the firelight, she saw his chest was massive and sculpted, dusted with the lightest smattering of golden hair against his tanned skin. "There’s no way the others will be able to see you."

"You know I meant privacy from you."

He frowned, as if she spoke nonsense. "Mates have a different concept of privacy," he said, smoothly stripping himself of his jeans, leaving that spectacular body completely unclothed.

Dumbstruck, she was unable to do anything but stare at the expanse of skin and rippling muscles. Her gaze dipped lower, past his chiseled torso to the trail of darker hair below his navel. In a kind of daze, she found her eyes following it down to his huge erection.

She’d felt how large he was but was still unprepared to witness his size. With every second she gaped, his penis grew harder, distending before her eyes. His breaths were coming faster, yet she couldn’t seem to look away.

The broad head that she’d once briefly stroked grew slick, and the sight called forth an answering clenching between her thighs, so powerful she nearly cried out…

She knew what was happening – she was suffering from the immortal phenomenon of overstimulation.

The transition from mortal to immortal was a time of uncomfortable adjustment. Eyesight and sense of smell improved exponentially, and even tactile awareness increased, yet it took time for transitioning mortals to get accustomed to the difference.

In short, her senses were bombarding her, and that was a problem.

Because superhuman senses meant superhuman lust.

"Gods, Mariketa," he rasped, "I can feel your eyes on it."

She finally forced herself to drag her gaze away. As soon as she turned from him, she heard him enter the water. With a gasp, she lunged for the side to get out, but he caught her with an arm looped around her waist.

"Let me go!" she demanded, struggling against him, briefly stunned by the rock hardness prodding her.

"I’m enjoying your squirming, but no’ your kicking so much. Ach, watch that you doona hit me in the ballocks! We’re both going to need those in working order."

Galling! "You bastard – stop poking me with… with that!"

"You keep squirming, witch, and I’m no’ goin’ to be able to keep my hips still either."

She froze, out of breath and realizing she couldn’t fight him anyway. He was breathing hard, too, but not from exertion. She felt his warm exhalations on her neck and ear and shivered, her ni**les hardening against his arm.

"You need my help in here – even if you doona want to admit it."

"You think I can’t clean myself?"

"You brushed your teeth for a good ten minutes, and you’ve washed your hair twice and you’d probably do it again for good measure, but your arms are likely getting tired."

"They’re not!" They were. "I’m fine."

"Oh? Then let me see your hands."

She rolled her eyes and raised her hands. At his tsking sound, she glanced down. Her nails were dirty! Her face flushed wildly. Damn him!

When he spun her around, she draped her arm over her br**sts. Glaring at the ceiling, she allowed him to wash one hand at a time. Using the lather, he massaged each finger from base to tip.

Her eyelids began to grow heavy as he firmly pressed his thumbs into her palms, one then the other. "Your hands are so small," he said, his voice pleasingly low and rumbly. "But pretty." She just stifled a shiver.

He finally let her go, and embarrassingly, she swayed. Once she opened her eyes, mustering up the energy to lay into him again, she found him running his thumb claw against the limestone. "What are you doing that for?"

"Dulling the verra edges. Give me those wee hands again." More massaging followed until the fight in her was blissed away. When he began carefully running his dulled claw under each of her nails, she watched his face. His brows were drawn in concentration while he painstakingly went about the task, as if this was very important for him.

"There," he said when finished. "Now for all that hair of yours." He eased her around again.

Still rendered relaxed and cooperating, she let him tend to her. With his claws retracted, he massaged her head thoroughly until she felt she was the consistency of a puddle. And she knew he was wearing that look of concentration as he did it, because he wanted to get this right. What she didn’t know was why.

If this was meant to torture her and make her miserable enough to remove the spell, then he was doing a shoddy job of it.