Page 66 of Ravished By the Revenant

“That’s why I love you,” I say, and mean it with my whole heart. “Not the castle. Not the dragon hoard. The buckets.”

I sink into the water and make a sound that’s honestly indecent. Heat wraps around every ache Marco and his men caused—my wrenched shoulders, my bruised arms, the places where their fingers dug in. Aldric kneels beside the tub with the good soap and the pitcher, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and starts washing my hair without needing to be asked. He pours warm water over my scalp, then works up a lather with those enormous, careful hands, and I go boneless against the copper.

“Your shoulder,” I murmur, eyes closed. “The bullet. Does it hurt?”

“It complains. I ignore it. We have an arrangement, my wounds and I.” His fingers move down to my neck, kneading out the knots. “Yours concern me more.”

“Mine are temporary. That’s my whole brand. Temporary damage, permanent sarcasm.”

He washes the dried blood from my chin with a cloth, so gently I barely feel it, his jaw tight the entire time. Then my shoulders. My arms, lifting each one from the water like it’s made of glass. He soaps down my spine, and I lean forward over my knees and let him. The last of the cellar drains out of me and swirls away with the bathwater.

When I lean back, I splash him. Not on purpose. Mostly not on purpose.

His shirt goes translucent across the chest, and the blue glow blazes through the wet fabric. The linen clings to every ridge of muscle and every line of ink, and I forget what I was going to say. I forget most words. The fabric is plastered to his sternum, to the shadowed valley of parted ribs, and the light pulses there, faster now, because he’s caught me looking.

“Clara.” The man manages to put a warning and invitation in the same two syllables.

“Your shirt’s wet,” I say intelligently.

Aldric raises an eyebrow. “You wet it.”

“Well.” Heat that has nothing to do with the water heater suffuses me, chasing out the last of today’s coldness. I was abducted. Locked in a cellar. A man I love killed for me today. I am alive, and he is here, and suddenly there’s only one thing I want. “You should probably take it off. For laundry reasons.”

“Laundry reasons,” he repeats dryly.

I rise up onto my knees in the water and take his collar in both fists.

“Aldric.” I pull him close enough that his breath cools my wet lips. “Take me to bed and fuck me. I need to feel alive tonight, and you’re the only dead man for the job.”

I feel the growl building in his chest between my legs.

He hauls me out of the tub dripping and carries me through the doorway. My wet body is soaking his ruined shirt further while I undo the buttons with clumsy fingers. By the time my back hits the mattress, I’ve got the shirt hanging off one of his shoulders and the room is bathed in blue.

He comes down over me, and I press a palm flat against his chest before he gets any ideas about running this campaign.

“No. Tonight I’m in charge.” I push, and he lets me, rolling onto his back. “I want to ride you. I want to look at it while I do.”

“At…” He follows my gaze to his glowing heart.

“At you,” I say. “All of you.”

I peel the wet shirt the rest of the way off him and fight his pants down his legs while he watches me. His cock lies hard against his stomach, the ladder of barbells gleaming in the blue light. I straddle his hips and take him in one hand. When I line him up, his hands find my waist. They’re trembling.

I sink down.

I’m still not used to the stretch, but I take him in inch by inch anyway, every cold rung of metal. By the time he’s in as deep as my body allows, we’re both breathing like we climbed the turret. Beneath me, his heart is going wild. The crystal pulses fast and bright between the parted ribs, throwing blue light up across my breasts, my throat, my face.

“Look at that,” I whisper. “It’s racing.”

“You are sitting on me,” he grits out. “Naked. Alive. Of course it races.”

I start to move. Slow at first, rolling my hips, learning the angle. Aldric’s head presses back into the pillow, and his fingers flex on my waist. The piercings do their unfair, magnificent work with every rise and fall, and I brace my palms on his stomach and ride him while the light strobes faster beneath my hands.

“Clara,” he hisses. His thumb moves from my hip, finds my slick and swollen clit, and circles, making my rhythm stutter. “There. Take what you need. Take everything.”

“Bossy.” I grind down hard and watch his eye lose focus. “Even on your back. Even—” I moan when he presses against my clit just as his cock nudges my G-spot, “—even with me driving.”

“You love it.”