Page 39 of Of Scale and Blood

She quickly retrieved the requested soapweed and robes, then left, discreetly closing the internal door behind her. I stepped away from Damon and motioned to the water. “In you go.”

“Not without my wife.”

And, moving with surprising speed for a man whose exhaustion echoed through me, he scooped me up and threw me in. I went under and came up spluttering and cursing. He laughed, hastily stripped off, then strode into the steaming bubbly water. Every inch of him was honed to muscular perfection, his cock rigid and ready for action.

But he’d thrown me in fully clothed, and I intended to stay that way—at least for the next few minutes.

I grabbed the greenwood soapweed from the platform next to the pool then held out a hand in warning. “You can keep those salacious intentions to yourself until you smell a whole lot fresher and I’m sure none of your wounds need immediate treatment.”

Lazy amusement played about his lips. “May I propose a more exciting arrangement?”

My eyebrows rose, even as my already racing pulse ratcheted up several notches. “And what might that be?”

“One part washed for one piece of clothing removed.”

“Would it not be better—and quicker—to just let me wash you?”

“Undoubtedly, but where is the fun in that?”

“Did you play these sorts of games with all your lovers?”

“No, but then, there were actually very few that I wanted to play such games with.”

“Huh” was all I said to that.

“You don’t believe me? I’m mortally wounded.”

It was mockingly said, and yet, just for a second, irritation and perhaps a bit of anger flickered through his one good eye. But what other response did he expect, given his reputation—one he’d never denied?

I motioned him to turn around. “Let’s start with the back.”

“No, let’s start with the front—yours, not mine.”

I rolled my eyes, handed him the soapweed, then stripped off my coat and tossed it onto the thermae’s coping. The silk undershirt was plastered to my skin, revealing my breasts and painfully hardened nipples.

He sucked in a breath and reached out, gently brushing his thumb across them—and causing all sorts of inner havoc—before I lightly slapped his hand away. “There was no mention of touching, my dear prince. Now turn around so I can wash your back.”

“You, as I noted before, are a hard woman to deny a man in need the sight of your glorious body.”

“Aside from the fact you’ve only one good eye at the moment and are obviously delusional, you can distract yourself by telling me what happened out there.”

“Nothing more than what was to be expected, given our attack on their encampment.” He handed me the soapweed, then turned. “They gave chase. We rode hard. There was the occasional battle.”

I gently washed away the blood from multiple minor wounds. “There’s enough evidence on your back to suggest there was more than one close call.”

“They’re not wounds from weapons. The ghost tree fronds are as sharp as any whip when you go through them at speed, and they seemed to have an almost unnatural affinity for human flesh rather than courser.”

“Hate to say this, but I’m not overly saddened by that development. Better you than them. At least you understand what is happening. They would simply think it’s the riders whipping them.”

“While that is true, I cannot help but think it also indicates your affection for me lies below the drakkons and the coursers.”

“Well, I have known them longer, and they have proven their worth. You, my dear Damon, have not.”

“Oh, you wound me.” He turned and took the soapweed from me. “Next item of clothing—I suggest the boots.”

“Is that not two items?” I countered, amused.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want you to be standing there lopsided or anything.” Devilment danced through his expression. “Besides, I can hardly prove my worth to you if you insist on remaining fully clothed.”

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