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“Will you let me do this for you at some point?” Aimee asked impulsively. His hands paused a moment.

“I don’t know,” he admitted cautiously.

“Why not?” Aimee prodded. “You don’t like to be touched?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“What isn’t?”

He hesitated. “Your body is … small and neat. It’s pleasurable for me to touch it.”

Aimee considered this a moment. “Well, your body is large and magnificent. It would be pleasurable for me to touch it also.”

He made a choking sound in his throat. “Aimee.” The groaned word sounded almost like a warning. “Be careful what you ask for. You may get more than you can handle.” He released her foot. What did that mean, she wondered. “What does Golda do next?”

“Hands and arms,” she replied promptly. “But I need to untangle my hair and let it dry before the fire first.”

He gave a rumble of assent, and Aimee sank down onto the hearth rug and unwrapped her hair from the drying cloth. “Can you pass me that comb?” she asked, spreading the sheet to dry over the second chair by the fire. He reached out an arm and grabbed the comb, handing it to her.

Efficiently, Aimee saw to the snarls and knots until her hair lay tamed and damp and curling at the ends. Setting aside the comb, she turned back to her husband to find him steadily watching her.

“Ready?” he asked. Aimee extended her hand by way of an answer, and he took it and started rubbing the fluid into her palm. “What is this?”

“’Tis an almond milk lotion infused with scented oil. This one smells like attar of roses.” She hesitated and directed a look at him through her lashes.

“What?” he prompted, lifting his brows.

“I could get a different scent for you if you did not wish to smell of flowers.”

He snorted and laced his fingers through hers, spreading the lotion over her fingers. “Like what?” he asked after a pause.

Aimee swallowed, her throat feeling rather dry. “Musk,” she suggested. “Or mayhap sandalwood.” His hands were stroking up her arm. It was odd how conscious she felt of every pass of his fingers.

“You have no dry patches,” he commented. “Not even here.” He tapped her elbow and then circled it with his fingertips.

“Well, no,” she responded virtuously. “I always apply unguent after every bath. It prevents your skin from drying out. You should try it.”

He gave a reluctant smile as though her persistence was starting to amuse him. “Maybe I will,” he said absently and repeated the process on her other arm. “Where else?” he asked when he reached her shoulder. There was a decided rasp in his voice.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where else do you spread your lotion?” He was kneading her shoulder now, and when he spread his hand, his fingers reached the edge of her collarbone.

“Golda only does those areas,” she squeaked back truthfully. Even she could hear the wistful note in her voice.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Don’t you have any areas that you see to yourself?”

Aimee gave a strangled cough. “Well … yes,” she admitted.

“Where? Tell me.” His fingers were tracing lightly along her collarbone now, making her shiver.

“Well …” She gave a cough. “The, er, parts that are kept out of sight,” she admitted, glancing and turning bright red.

“Yes?” he said huskily, and she saw his eyes dip to where she had knotted the sheet. “Would you permit me to do them?”