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I laugh to myself. No one has ever called my dainty before. I’m too tall and curvy. But compared to him, I’m practically a tiny little doll. “Thank you,” I say.
He nods and stands again, hands encircling my rib cage. “I will finish undressing you now.”
He slides my tank top up and over my head, somehow managing not to tangle it in my curls. Then he slips off my bra, leaving me naked before him. My heart is pounding and I’m breathing too fast, but I don’t know why. I’m not scared, or even all that uncomfortable.
Moving so swiftly I don’t see it coming, he scoops me up and carries me to the tub, carefully lowering me into the steaming, scented water. My muscles immediately sigh in relief—after all, I’ve been sleeping on the floor of a wooden hut for the past few nights.
I go limp, letting myself sink under the water. Bradoc settles behind me, rubbing my shoulders with strong, nimble fingers. It’s the most glorious thing I’ve ever felt, and he absolutely missed his calling as a massage therapist.
“Oh my lord,” I sigh. “That’s magical.”
“You enjoy it?”
“Mm-hmmm.” Between the hot water and the massage, I can barely form words. My eyes drift close as I sink deeper into relaxation.
For such a big creature, Bradoc is remarkably capable of moving with slowness and tenderness. He proved it when he disrobed me, and proves it again as he begins to wash me, starting at my shoulders and gently working his way down my right arm, all the way to the palm and fingertips, which gives me a flippy sensation in my belly. He repeats it with my left arm, and then moves to my collarbone.
I find myself holding my breath, and force it out in a whoosh. Despite my reservations about this whole process, there’s something incredibly erotic about being washed by a careful man.
With a studious intensity, he moves the washcloth over my breasts and nipples, making me gasp, then down my torso and across my belly, dipping into my navel. He slides down one leg, then the other, lavishing attention on each toe. He ignores the space between my legs, and I can’t decide if I’m grateful or furious.
“I need to do your back,” he says in a low voice, so I shift.
He follows the same route, starting at my shoulders and ending at my buttocks, before shifting me again and dunking my hair. He massages my scalp and works the fragrant water through each curl. He’s remarkably thorough and patient, not skipping a single body part.
By the time he stops, my nipples are hard, my belly is swooping, and I’m totally confused about how I feel.
“Stand,” he orders.
I do, and he helps me out of the tub and dries me off. Once I’m mostly dry, he covers my skin in an oil that smells like tuberose and then begins to decorate my skin with paints made from crushed flowers.
“I wish I had green,” he says. “Your eyes are the color of grass in a meadow. But blue and white will have to do.”
I smile to myself. Despite English being his second language, his command of it is both perfect and oddly poetic.
“How is it you speak my language when no one else in your village does?”
“It is my duty,” he explains. “As alpha hunter for my tribe, I have spent time observing humans. Learning your language and customs. It isn’t often we capture your kind during raids, but when we do, you become my responsibility.”
“You’ve taken other human women before?”
“Only one other woman. My tribesman Yankaz chose her as wife and they eventually left the village. We have not seen either of them in many seasons.”
“Why did they leave?”
He shrugs. “I do not know. Perhaps they made a home with another tribe. That is not common, but it does sometimes happen.”
“What’s going to happen to me? Once we’re married, that is.”
“What do you mean? You will be my wife. It is a place of honor in the tribe. We will live together in this cabin and have children.”
“But Bradoc, I have a life with humans. A job, friends, an apartment. I can’t just stay here and be your wife, popping out kids like a broodmare. I’m not a prize you collected.”
“That is exactly what you are.” He looks up, his silvery gaze meeting mine. The possessiveness in his expression is enough to take my breath away. “You are mine. I will not let you go.”
He chooses that moment to paint a circle around my right areola, distracting me from the protest I was about to lodge. He repeats it on the left, then draws a line down from my breastbone to my navel.
I fall silent, mesmerized by the soft brushstrokes as he feathers them across my skin. A few dots here, an intricate whorl there, a pattern along my cheekbones. At long last, he sets the brush down and rises, taking a step back and inspecting his work.
