Page 42 of Preferential Treatment

“What?”

“I don’t know what you’re used to in Arctic Siberia—”

“I’m from Volgograd.”

“—but that is not a hot shower.”

He adjusted the temperature a few degrees upward. Kate reached a hand in and frowned. “Still no. Show me how this works. Actually, never mind, I can figure it out.”

Bemused, Mikhail let himself be nudged aside by her slighter form. She tapped at the control panel, pushing the temperature higher and higher.

“Katya,” he objected with dismay. “You’re going to boil yourself like a lobster.”

She blinked at him, not responding immediately. After an odd pause, she bit her lip and turned away from him, stepping into the shower. “I like boiling myself. Come on.” She held a hand out, gesturing for him to join her.

He stepped in, but paused on the periphery, hissing at the feel of liquid hot magma hitting his legs.

Kate laughed at him. “What a wimp. I’m going to have to find myself a tougher slave.”

He knew she was joking, but a bolt of icy hot panic cut through his chest. He caught her around the waist, driving her against the shower wall, pinning her there with his body. Her hellfire shower rained down on his back, probably eating his skin right off his bones.

“Take it back,” he demanded.

Kate gazed up at him, eyes narrowed—but not with anger. She was contemplating him. It was an oddly vulnerable sensation, and he didn’t much care for it. But he remained there, his body pressed to hers, as long as she would tolerate it.

Her expression relaxed. “I wouldn’t really do that,” she said, speaking with such careful kindness, he almost flinched. He wanted to recoil from her, walk away, but he couldn’t make his body comply.

“I know.” Still, he held her, letting her astute gaze bore into him. He couldn’t look away.

Several breaths passed between them, the air thick with fog, their bodies growing slick in the steam—probably from sweat because fuck did she like a hot shower.

Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore. He drew back, taking Kate with him, pulling her beneath the shower stream. She closed her eyes, head tilting back to let the water coast over her face and body. Keeping one arm around her, Mikhail reached for one of the nearby bottles, uncertain whether he was grabbing shampoo or body wash or something else entirely. Whatever it was, it sudsed in his hands, and he began rubbing it over Kate’s skin, working his fingers into the muscles of her shoulders and down along the sides of her spine.

She murmured something inaudible, tipping her head forward to rest her cheek against his shoulder, pliant under his touch. It felt like as much of a victory as making her come did. His cock took notice, but the feeling wasn’t sexual, really. He couldn’t identify it.

She murmured again and this time Mikhail asked, “Hm?”

“Didn’t want to get my hair wet,” she said. “Oh well.”

The sleepiness in her voice and the trusting wrap of her arms around his waist exacerbated that weird feeling. That same chest pressure he’d felt on the plane was back. He couldn’t have a heart attack right now—he was too busy seeing to his printsessa. He pressed his palm to his sternum, willing it away. Guiding Kate to sit on the tiled bench, he crouched before her and soaped up her legs, taking care to rinse sticky come and sweat from between her thighs. He worked his way down to her feet, pressing his thumbs into her arches, drawing delicious moans from her.

When she was rinsed and clean, Mikhail turned to step out of the shower, to fetch her a towel, but she caught his wrist and dragged him back, pushing him to sit on the bench she’d just vacated.

“Katya—” he objected.

Her gaze lit on his and held for a moment. And then he heard it—realized what he’d done.

“Knyazhna, I meant,” he corrected himself.

Kate shrugged, smiling. “You can call me Katya. I like it.”

“Better than ‘knyazhna’?”

“No. I like ‘knyazhna’ when you’re serving me. But when we’re just… just ourselves, you can call me Katya.”

“Hmm. Katya.”

She gave him another smile, then poured soap into her hands and began working it over his body. He forgot why he’d tried to stop her. Her hands, as he well knew, were strong. But this was the first time she’d turned that strength so gently on him. She massaged his chest and shoulders. She worked her way down his arms and then his thighs with firm, kneading pressure. He hadn’t realized how tightly he held himself until his muscles began to relax under her hands.

---