Page 82 of Her Tortured Beasts

“Why?” I say sleepily, reaching for the cloth.

He slaps my hand away. “I must be the one to clean you.”

There’s a knock at the door. “My lord, we can do that,” comes Heather’s voice.

Olly and Heather pop into view, concern and alarm clear on their faces.

“Out!” Xander roars, leaping to his feet. “Out!”

Their faces morph into comical levels of terror before they both make a run for it and Xander slams the door shut so hard it vibrates

“This must be a dragon thing,” I say quietly. “Is it?”

“It’s the treasure haze,” Xander says through clenched teeth as he scrubs at my other arm. “I can’t stop it.”

“But I’m a person,” I say slowly. The term is vaguely familiar, but in this context, it makes no sense. “Not like jewels or something.”

“It works the same,” Xander says, plunging his hand into the water and reaching for my foot. He brings it out of the water and begins meticulously cleaning each toe. “I must clean you thoroughly before I set you in your place.”

“I’ve never seen you like this,” I say, watching him inspecting the space between my big toe and the next.

“It’s temporary,” Xander says, carefully placing my foot back into the water and starting on the other. “Don’t get used to it.”

It’s not until he’s finished with my lower limbs and reaching under the water that I see the problem.

“Oh no.”

“What?” he says, alarmed. “Are you unwell?” Xander leans toward my face and sniffs before making a growling sound. “You are fine.” Then he begins washing my thighs beneath the water.

The sensation is so nice, so soothing compared to Heather’s brusque movements, that I close my eyes and sigh. “I mean, yeah, I think so.”

The washcloth moves up to the apex of my thighs. “Shit,” he says. “I can’t stop.”

My eyes fly open. “Pardon?”

Xander’s hand spreads my thighs open, and the washcloth runs over my clit. “Spawn, I can’t fucking stop.”

I hiss, arching my back. “Okay, wait. Here.” I try to ease my hand between his and the washcloth. But his hand is hot, large, and covers mine completely, eventually sweeping it to the side. He keeps rubbing between my legs like something mechanical.

He swears again as his hand keeps moving up and down over my core, that washcloth and the warm water creating the sort of friction that could drive a woman mad.

“Oh god,” I pant. “I— We?—

“I—” Xander groans. “Shit?—”

My eyes roll to the back of my head, and try as I might to fight it, the orgasm takes me. A gasp turns into a loud moan and I can’t help but close my eyes and arch into it like I’ve been craving all week. He keeps rubbing and I lose myself completely to his hand, the steam, the warmth.

“Did you just—” Xander is panting, sweat beading on his forehead, his jaw clenching.

“Yeah, sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed, trying to sit up again. “It’s just been a while and?—”

“It’s my fucking fault,” he mutters. “All my fucking—” He begins washing my abdomen, but his hands become gentle and he frowns deeply. “These never healed properly.”

The change in topic is jarring, but I register he’s talking about the scars my father made on my stomach. Celeste’s phoenix tears had taken them almost all away, but they still left faint red lines diagonally across my skin.

“They’re healed,” I say, cringing at the sensation of the cloth rubbing along the tissue. “Just not?—”

“That hurts you,” he mutters, before discarding the cloth and continuing with just his hands. Hot skin caresses mine with a gentleness that is confusing.

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