Once again, the words are rushing out of me before I have time to reel them back in, and I’m not so sure it’s the truth serum now or if it’s genuine interest and exhaustion powering my curiosity.
“It’s an old lullaby. All babes are sung it where I’m from,” he says quietly.
“It was beautiful.” I keep my eyes shut, afraid if I look up and see him smiling with his hands still gently massaging my scalp, I might say something I’ll regret. Instead, I keep them tightly closed, doing my best to ignore the way the heat is making me feel feverish all over again now that I’m relaxed. Now that I’m safe and fed.
“I am glad you enjoyed it,” he says.
“What’s it about?” I ask, and then mentally slap myself for continuing to get to know him better. My translator didn’t seem to be able to catch it all. It must not be as good with song words as it is with spoken.
“It’s an old dialect,” he says slowly. “It may just be that the translator didn’t understand it.”
He continues to run his fingertips through my hair, and I shiver with pure enjoyment of the easy touch.
“It’s a song about a soldier going off to war to fight for a crown and a cause he doesn’t believe in because it is his duty. He’s leaving his beloved and knows that he will likely not return.”
“Oh… That’s so sad.” That’s a lullaby for his species? Seems like an odd choice, but I manage not to say it out loud, because that would be rude. And now I care about his feelings, which is exactly what I didn’t want.
I let out an irritated huff and cross my arms over my chest, trying to ignore the fact that my body is reacting again.
“Being made to fight in a war that you don’t believe in and don’t want to fight in is part of our Draegon culture,” he says slowly. “I never really considered it being inappropriate for a lullaby for a youngling. But now I wonder if it wasn’t just to make us more likely to be compliant.”
His hands have stopped on my scalp, and guilt floods through me.
“You didn’t have to—I don’t wanna?—”
I’m unable to complete whatever it is I’m trying to say. I’m not even sure what it is that I’m trying to say other than I feel guilty and worried about the odd tone in his voice. It’s not one I’ve heard from him before. He’s usually brash and annoying and slightly psychotic, but right now he’s thoughtful, his touch tender, and I’m wondering if I’ve ruined the chance to get to know him at all.
“Did you want me to help you clean the rest?” he asks, tapping my shoulder.
That forces me to open my eyes and look up at him.
“I can do it myself,” I say quietly.
“You’re tired,” he says, and there’s no judgment and no ulterior motive—not in his expression, his eyes, his voice. “I cantake care of you if you let me, just this once. It doesn’t have to be about anything else. I noticed that you were more relaxed with my hands on you than you have been. Does it help the heat?”
He cocks his head just slightly, a piece of silver-white hair falling over his face before he tucks it back behind an ear.
“That would be nice,” I say grudgingly, and he gives me the smallest of smiles before some of that twinkling mischief is in his eyes again.
“It is so hard for you to admit that you might enjoy my touch, is it not, my Lily?”
I glare at him. “Did you want to do it or not?” I ask. “You don’t have to be sassy about it.”
“Ah, but I think that you secretly like when I am sassy, because it lets you hide inside of your shell more,” he says knowingly.
Annoyed, I take the shower head from his hand, and it immediately turns off.
“Are you going to make it where I can’t know how to work this thing so you can touch me all over and clean me?”
I shouldn’t have said that out loud, because the minute I do, his eyes heat, and so does my skin.
“Suit yourself,” he says. “All you have to do is squeeze it lightly, and you will find that things come out of it. Perhaps you are familiar with this process?”
My mouth drops open. I should have suspected that he would make this suggestive, and yet I didn’t. So here we are—me, shocked, turned on, filthy, and denying being touched by the one person that can make me feel better.
Great.
“On Earth, it takes a lot more for men than one light squeeze to finish,” I tell him icily.
