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When it’s over, when she’s lying in the bath, eyes closed and body limp and I’m one small step from insanity, I grab a small pitcher from the side of the tub and start rinsing her. I concentrate on her, ignoring my own needs, my own body. It’s the only way to get through the raging hunger.
As I wash her, Aria doesn’t move except when I move her, doesn’t make a sound other than the small splashes of her arms and her legs as I lift and then lower them.
When she’s clean from the soap, I drain the water, then fill the tub back up halfway so that I can wash her hair. The first reaction I get from her is after I’ve poured warm water over her head, and am rubbing shampoo into her hair. She moans, presses her head harder against my fingers. I get the message, and rub a little more firmly, giving her the scalp massage she so obviously wants.
Rinsing out the shampoo, I do the same with the conditioner, massaging her scalp and pouring water over her hair until it runs clean.
When I’m done and Aria is little more than a pile of melted goo—exactly as I’d hoped and planned—I let the bathwater out and lift her into my arms. I’m holding her against my chest and the contact is soaking my shirt, but I don’t give a damn. Not when it feels this nice to just have her in my arms.
“Can you stand?” I ask after a moment.
“Of course.”
She sounds sated and sleepy and so, so sexy that I have to grit my teeth against the wave of need that swamps me. For a moment, I imagine carrying her through to the bed and just burying my face in her pussy. Eating her out until she screams my name and comes so hard that the endorphins alone will cure her of subdrop once and for all.
But it doesn’t work that way—her fall will just be more brutal later if I try to take her up again so soon—so in the end, I settle for reluctantly sliding her to the ground before grabbing the towel from the rack and running it loosely over her body.
I spend the whole time trying not to notice her flushed skin and peaked nipples, her glazed eyes and slick, hot sex. I’m not nearly as successful as I want to be.
Once she’s dry, I start on her hair, rubbing it gently as her body practically melts into mine. It’s a little shocking how good she feels, how content I feel just because she’s pressed up against me. Leaning on me. Letting me take care of her.
“Do you want me to blow it dry?” I ask, once most of the wetness is gone from the soft, short strands.
Her face is against my shoulder, her arms wrapped around my neck, when she shakes her head no.
“All right, then.” I lead her into her bedroom. “Where are your pajamas?”
She stares at me blankly for long seconds, eyes half-closed and body completely pliant against my own. It’s like she’s actually gone boneless. And that’s before she starts to lick at the small drops of sweat rolling down my neck.
Shit! This woman is going to be the death of me. Self-restraint, heart attack, stroke, blue balls. I don’t know which is going to end me, but at this point it’s a safe bet that one of them will. How the fuck can she already be halfway back into subspace when all I wanted was to cuddle her, to ease the pain of the drop?
“Aria?” I call her name, speaking a little more firmly this time. “I don’t want to riffle through all your drawers. Which one do you keep your pajamas in?”
After a moment, her gaze clears a little and she gestures toward the tall chest in the corner. “Second drawer.” Her voice breaks a little.
“Good. Thanks.” I settle her on the bed—she’s so out of it I’m afraid she’ll fall without my support—and cross quickly to the chest. Then nearly have that stroke when I see the piles of lacy nightgowns in nearly every shade of the rainbow tangled together inside. Reds and pinks and purples. Blacks and turquoises and whites.
So, my Aria is definitely not a pajama kind of girl. It surprises me, is another contradiction that piques my interest and has me dying to know more about her—even as jealousy surges through me at the knowledge. It’s stupid and juvenile and demeaning to both of us, but I can’t help imagining how they got here. Who gave them to her. And all the things she’s done for other men while wearing them.
Furious with myself for being such a useless idiot, I pick out one of the ones lying on top—a violet silk number that’s more flirty than overtly sexy. It’ll cover all the vital places anyway, which is about all I can hope for at this point. Because I am not going to end up in bed with Aria tonight, no matter how tempting she is. That’s not what she needs right now, despite what she might be thinking otherwise.
When I turn around, she’s curled up naked on the bed, head on her arm as she watches me with sleepy, satisfied eyes. It’s a good look on her, and for a moment I just stand there, watching her. Mouth dry, eyes wide. Frozen with want. Frozen with need.
“You want to sleep, baby?” I ask when my sluggish brain finally remembers how to form words. I cross the room, and after she sits up, I tug the nightgown over her head.
“No. Maybe.” She reaches for my hand then, pulls it against her stomach as she curls around it. “Not yet.”
“All right.” I stroke her cheek with my other hand, pushing her hair back so I can see the slope of her forehead, the curve of her cheek. She all but preens under the attention, turning her head so that she can press a kiss to the center of my palm.
I return the gesture.
It’s warm in her apartment, the only air-conditioning a battered window unit that looks like it’s on its last legs, so I don’t bother trying to get her under the covers. Instead, I pull up the afghan from the end of the bed and drape it over her before sitting beside her on the edge of the bed.
She smiles sleepily at me, curves her body against mine. I don’t even try to resist the urge to lean over and kiss her forehead. Her cheek. Her lips.
Aria sighs a little, kisses me back. Her hand creeps up the bed to my thigh, her fingers stroking me through the thin silk of my suit pants. I bite back the instinctive groan, and capture her hand in my own, squeeze it gently.
“Don’t you want me to—”
