The moment Lucian lowered me into the steaming bathwater, my exhausted body melted against the porcelain. The heat seeped into my aching muscles, but did nothing to quell the fire still smoldering between my thighs. My skin felt hypersensitive—every drop of water tracing paths of liquid electricity across my oversensitive flesh.
He wants to bathe me?
Lucian knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms still damp with my arousal. His eyes burned with that familiar, terrifying hunger as he reached for the soap.
"Arms up," he commanded.
When I obeyed, the soapy sponge glided over my ribs with surprising gentleness. The contrast between this careful ministrations and the brutal possession of minutes before left me dizzy. He washed me with meticulous attention—behind my ears, between my fingers, the delicate hollows beneath my collarbones.
He even brushed my teeth, like he was preparing me for something. But what?
