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She cares, and she’s reaching out in tentative faith. Even if I didn’t want her desperately, I wouldn’t refuse her this. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Her gaze flicks to my shoulders as if she can still see the fire that appears when I lose control. “Will it burn me?”
“No. It’s not that kind of fire.” My fire can be a weapon in battle, but it takes conscious effort and it’s incredibly draining. In bed play, using it is as natural as breathing, same as the incubi’s shadows. An extension of self. I clear my throat. “You don’t have to sleep with me in order to stay here, little one. I’m not monster enough to require that. It’s the antithesis of everything we are.”
She smiles, sweet and a little pleased. “I know.” She steps back, and her hands go tentatively to the hem of her shirt. “I want you, Rusalka. I want you so desperately, it’s like a fever in my blood. Even when I’m up to my elbows in dirt in the garden, you’re all I can think about.”
I follow her into the room and shut the door, but I still hesitate to close the distance between us. Foolish, maybe, considering the orgasms I teased out of her just a short time ago, considering the fact that I can still scent myself on her lips. But then, I’ve been foolish when it comes to this woman from the moment we met. “I don’t want to inadvertently harm you by moving too fast.”
Her lower lip quivers, and she makes a visible effort to still it. “It’s because you care so much that I want this. Because you’re you. I had fun with Zhenya, Inna, and Danik, but they aren’t you. If I just wanted sex, I would find someone else, but that’s not what I want.”
The last of my resistance fades away. How could it do anything else when she’s standing before me, so fucking brave that it takes my breath away? “I care about you, too.”
“I know.” Belladonna smiles, and some of the tension fades away. “I know,” she repeats.
“If at any point, you change your mind, this stops with no negative consequences. Whether that’s tonight or three weeks or three years from now.” I reach out slowly and lace my fingers through hers. “Never doubt that you’re safe with me.”
“I know I am.” She laughs, the sound kind of tentative but true. “Rusalka, please take off your clothes.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “No, little one. If you want me in your bed, then we’re going to do this properly.”
“Is there a proper way to do it?”
I guide her through the room toward the bathroom. “If by ‘it,’ you’re referring to sex, then no, there’s no specific way that qualifies as proper. But we’re not talking about sex.”
“We’re . . . not?”
I nudge her onto the stool next to the bath and turn on the water. “No, dear heart. You said you want to take me to bed. That’s seduction.” That’s caring, with the potential for something deeper. Every interaction I’ve had with Belladonna reinforces the truth that she’s never been able to grasp the idea of sex as something free from shame, something that doesn’t have to be hurried and guilt-ridden. “We have all night, and I intend to use every minute to its fullest.”
17
BELLADONNA
It takes only a few minutes to get the tub filled. Rusalka won’t allow me to undress myself, and I understand why the moment she slides her hands up my sides and guides my shirt over my head.
There’s seduction even in this. It’s there in the way their breath ghosts over my shoulder, a tease at a future kiss, in how their claws play along my stomach before carefully undoing my pants, in the stroke of their tail up my calf, over my knee, to my inner thigh. The touches aren’t overtly sexual, but they’re filled with tenderness and caring. They make my knees go weak.
Still, I catch their hand and lift it to press a kiss to their palm. “I want you to touch me everywhere, but I have to admit I’m nervous about your claws.”
Rusalka’s laugh rumbles through her chest and into mine. “Have faith, little one. As I mentioned before, my people are shape-shifters.” She tugs her hand from mine and holds it up in front of my face. There’s a faint shimmer, the promise of flames, and then her claws melt down to mostly human-looking fingers. They’re too long, an extra knuckle in the place of the sharp claw. A pulse of heat goes through me and centers right between my thighs.
“Oh,” I say faintly.
They finish undressing me and urge me into the bath. “You worked hard in the gardens today. I imagine you’re feeling it.”
Truth be told, I am. I’ve had a job of one kind or another since I was sixteen, but none of them involved much manual labor. I didn’t expect to find such peace in it. Neither did I expect to find such satisfaction in the gardens itself. In knowing that when the seasons turn and turn again, I’ll plant and nurture and harvest a bounty that will feed not only myself but this community. A community that seems to have welcomed me with open arms. Knowing that is more than worth the aching back and the cramping fingers and the dirt that seems determined to work itself into every nook and cranny of my skin. “I like it.”
“I can tell.” They urge me down until I’m submerged up to my chin. “Let the hot water start the process of unwinding those tight muscles, and I’ll take care of the rest. Give me your hand.”
Even though I try to focus, to watch her, my eyes slide shut as she takes a small brush and goes to work on the dirt embedded in my nail beds. The bath and the pampering feel divine. “You aren’t trying to soothe me to sleep so you don’t have to come to bed with me, are you?”
Rusalka’s low laugh makes me open my eyes. Their full lips are pulled in a wicked grin that chases the thought of sleep right from my head. “I’m merely giving you a moment of rest. Enjoy it.”
As if I can do anything else. The heat works into my muscles, then my bones, and Rusalka’s hands do the rest. She washes me. It’s an act that should probably feel wrong or make humiliation lash my skin, but with Rusalka, it’s as natural as breathing. I trust her implicitly.
Maybe that makes me a fool. Only time will tell. If they really want to take advantage of me, it will be easy enough. I’ve given them the lock, the keys, and everything that I am. They wouldn’t even have to work hard at manipulation. They’d merely need to tell me again that my sacrifice would benefit thousands upon thousands of people.
My head lolls on the edge of the tub as they wash my hair. The weight of my tresses is heavy, and, not for the first time, I think about cutting it. I’m not even sure I like long hair; it’s simply been the only option available to me.
