Page 47 of Down and Dirty

“The dirtier ones go last,” she elaborated, as if that made it all right.

Double yeech! He reached for the Olay body wash — his mother again — and squirted a big dollop into one hand, then rubbed both palms together, creating foam. The scent of aloe permeated the cubicle. He sure as hell hoped it was an aphrodisiac.

“Is that soap?” she asked, fascinated by the foam and the scent. Still no false modesty about covering herself.

Good diversionary tactic… the body wash. “Yep. Soft soap. And you know what they say? ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’”

“God? Did you say God? Oooh, I knew you were a god.”

Hey, if she wants to think I’m a god, who am I to complain? “Turn around, baby, let me do your back.” Then let me do you, period. He bit his bottom lip to make sure he didn’t say that aloud.

Britta stared at him dubiously.

“It’ll help conserve on soap, too.”

“Ah, ’tis a luxury in your land, too?”

“Oh, yeah.” I am so good.

She turned.

“Put your hands above your head and spread your legs a little,” he directed. Please, please, please.

She snorted and started to turn around in protest.

Every man worth his salt knew there was not one, but several windows of opportunity in the art of seduction. The rule here was, never allow a woman time to think. So, cool guy that he was, he placed a palm against her back, between her shoulder blades, and shoved, mashing her flat against the tiles.

“Ooomph!”

“It’s easier for me to wash your back and sides if you raise your arms and spread your legs.” What a line! I should write that down. Later.

“Dost think I am a wanton?”

A guy can only hope.

Miracle of miracles, she put her hands above her head. That’s all. But, hey, that was enough of a start for a guy in lust mode.

“Stubborn wench,” he muttered.

“I heard that.”

“This will also massage your sore muscles.”

They were both silent then as he worked the soft soap into her shoulders, down her back and sides, where his fingertips barely skimmed the sides of her breasts, over her hips. Then he started all over at the bottom, her feet, ankles, calves, and thighs. He was working fast, knowing that any minute now Britta was going to change her mind.

“I should forewarn you,” Britta said. “I am no longer interested in any of those orgasms.”

“Is that a fact?” He smiled. “Why?”

“I saw one performed by those dwarves on Madrene’s black box. Six times, actually. And I am not impressed.”

“What exactly did you see?”

“Much moaning and screaming and rocking up and down. It cannot be an exercise to be desired if it involves moaning and screaming. Right?”

“Wrong. There is good moaning and screaming and bad moaning and screaming.”

“What nonsense!” She gasped, then squealed, “Yikes!” as she peered over her shoulder and saw him kneeling with his face in front of her butt, soaping her up. She turned quickly and managed to knee him in the funny bone — not that funny bone, thank God! — the funny bone at his elbow.