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She moved the ice down his arm out to his hand, then back up under the arm, teasing the armpit. Then--
He captured her wrist with the opposite hand, holding it up between them. Dipping his own hand in the container, he came out with a handful of ice and put it in her palm, closing her hand over it. As she felt the burn of the ice, he met her gaze. "Think you can order me around, Sam?"
She saw licks of flame in his brown eyes. "I don't know," she said. "Can I?"
"No. You can't." He opened her fingers, letting the ice drop with a clatter to the wood planks. Bringing her cold palm against the heat of his body, he warmed it without flinching, without moving his attentio
n from her face. The man was arousing her with nothing more than how he was looking at her. With hunger, with a need to take, held back only by his own restraint, by whatever thoughts were moving through his mind. "Tell me what you want," he said.
"I want to wash you."
Surprise flitted through his gaze. He'd need a full shower to be clean, but she had a different purpose from cleaning. All she needed was his acquiescence. "May I?"
He didn't agree or disagree, but he didn't stop her. After a weighted moment, she sank back to her heels and untied his work shoes, removing them and his socks, fingers caressing his arches before she rose to her feet. "Will you stand for me?" she asked.
He did so, a big man in a small space, though he'd made the sloped roof so he could stand up straight, even with the interlaced branches above him. Hooking her fingers in the rings of the canvas belt of his camo pants, she pulled it free and unbuttoned the top of the pants. She left them that way as she bent and retrieved the washcloth. As she did, she stilled, for his hands slid over her hips, catching her belt loops as he did earlier, only now his touch slid lower, cupping one buttock. When she straightened, his hand stayed on her hip, fingertips curved into her back pocket. The other captured her breast, thumbing her nipple through the thin T-shirt.
Her reaction to his touch spiraled out, sending electric tingles throughout her upper torso. She made herself focus, though, sliding the washcloth over his shoulder. The excess water rolled down his chest, his back and arm. She moved the terry cloth in slow glides over that same terrain, and when she moved closer to him to run it behind his neck to get the sweat and grime there, he obligingly dipped his head. His large hand descended even lower, his firm hold pressing into the seam of her jeans at the base of her ass. A tiny breath escaped, a shudder going through her. As he curved over her, she ran the cloth over the widest part of his back and he shifted his grip to clasp her buttocks in both hands.
The way he was looking at her made the space much smaller and more charged with heat in a blink. She thought he might finally have a few more things on his mind than being mad at Geoff or her. It made her dare to ask him the next question.
"Do you want me to take anything off?" Her voice wasn't much over a squeak.
After three long heartbeats, he reached out to finger the hem of her T-shirt and tug on her jeans waistband. "Everything but the panties," he said roughly. "I want to watch you wash me in just those."
His manner wasn't as overt as Geoff's, yet he took her over just as powerfully. Chris was more like a strong undercurrent that ran below the surface, arousing her with how it teased and tugged at her submissive side, while giving her more freedom to play around him and explore.
"Like a slave girl washing her Master," she said, though her lips couldn't quite curve in a smile, especially when he didn't smile back. He waited.
She pulled off the shirt and shimmied out of the jeans, shoes and socks. She was wearing thin white panties with a touch of lace, and she was sure the front panel was as damp with her arousal as his shirt had been with sweat. His gaze slid there, then back over her stomach, her quivering breasts. His arousal was growing thicker and more insistent beneath the camo pants. The pants were now half-unzipped because of the strain being put on the fly.
Bending, she dipped the washcloth into the bowl again. She ran it over his chest and arms, moving around him to do his back. Rivulets of water slipped down his lower back and beneath his waistband. After rubbing the cloth over his arms and down to his hands, she rewet the cloth so she could do an even better job cleaning the dirt from his palms. She pulled out a fresh washcloth and dipped it into the ice container, enough water there to dampen the cloth. Back on her toes again, she wiped his face, passing it over his eyes as they closed for her. Then the bridge of his nose, his lips and cheeks, the strong jaw.
A higher stretch let her reach the back of his neck once more, and his broad shoulders. His arms slid around her, hands taking possession of her ass again, though this time there was nothing between the heat of his palms and her flesh except the thinnest barrier of silk. He fondled her with obvious male enjoyment as she swayed, her lips parting.
Taking the cloth from her, he dropped it on the floor and leaned back against the wall, bringing her closer so her breasts pressed against his chest, her cheek to his shoulder. He held her that way, his hand holding her skull and his other hand stroking, rubbing and fondling her ass. The position put her mound against his thigh, his erection against her abdomen, and she wanted to rub, to entice.
She expanded the fantasy in her mind. Maybe he wasn't her Master the prince, but the royal gardener who loved the slave girl. The gardener would tell her he wanted her to wash him the way she'd wash her Master. He wanted her to show him it wasn't money or royal power that commanded her obedience, but the nature of the man.
When Chris split her legs open by insinuating one of his muscled thighs in between them, he seated her right against that flexing muscle. She grabbed his biceps for balance as he began to work her against him, creating explosive friction.
"Chris," she gasped. His hand tightened.
"I want to hear you come, Sam. I want to hear you come without that vibrator you use. No pillow to muffle those sexy moans you make."
Her gaze snapped up to him, color suffusing her cheeks. His jaw set. "I've jerked off listening to you, the bumps and creaks of your bed," he said roughly. "I want to hear you come for me, because of what I'm doing to you, how I'm touching you. Not because of . . . anything else."
"Anything else, or anyone else?"
She meant it as a gentle tease, because his hesitation implied the word as clearly as speaking it. A blink later, she wished she'd let the powerful arousal gripping her keep her from speaking at all, because apparently it was the wrong thing to say if she'd wanted them to keep going in the direction they were headed.
For just a second his grip constricted on her hard enough to bruise, then he released her and straightened. He moved her off of him decisively enough it sliced into her heart. Bending, he scooped up her clothes and handed them to her. He fastened his pants, retrieved his T-shirt and pulled it back on before he gave her an even look, his expression wooden.
"I told you it was better to leave me alone," he said gruffly. He picked up the bowl, dumped the water out the window and stuffed it and the washcloths back into the tote. "Put your clothes back on and come back to the house."
He didn't wait for her, though he took everything she'd brought with her so she didn't have to navigate them down the ladder. When she was alone, watching him stride back toward the house, the tote on his shoulder, Sam stood there, holding her clothes against her tingling skin despite the chill settling over her. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't.
This was just a bump in the road. She wouldn't turn it into a huge life-or-death drama, no matter the size of the jagged lump in her throat.
