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ChapterSixteen
This steam roomhas less wood and more tile all over, and I soon see why. A woman stands up from her seat, walks over to a nearby bucket with water, and pours the water over her head.
Huh. Given that you can see her nipples through her top, the water must be icy, yet she’s clearly enjoying herself. That, or she’s putting on a show for Art. The way she’s looking at him, she must be wet in many senses of the word.
To his credit, Art doesn’t seem to notice her existence. Instead, he sets up a spot for us on a top bench and sits down.
When I join him, he asks, “Do you want me to put the honey on your back?”
Is water wet? “Yes, please.”
He gently smears me with honey, his touch sending tendrils of heat through my body that could teach the steam room a thing or two.
The bucket woman must see she has no chance because she slams the door on her way out.
Nice. We’re alone now.
Much too soon, Art finishes smearing honey over my back, and even though I’m hoping he’ll offer to cover other parts of me, he doesn’t. Rudely, he just hands me the honey.
So inconsiderate. With an inward sigh, I turn myself into a Lemon pancake.
Then an exciting idea hits me—possibly prompted by the vodka.
“What about you?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible. “You have skin.”
Ugh. You have skin? That’s a line that belongs in The Silence of the Lambs.
He looks at the honey in my hands thoughtfully. “Sure, why not?”
Score! “Do you need help with your back?”
“Please.”
Before he can change his mind, I smear him with honey—which gives my palms as many orgasms as the massage did earlier.
Oh, and has the parilka gotten much, much steamier all of a sudden, especially in my panties?
Because I’m enjoying this so much, I cover him with a second layer of honey. Then a third.
“Thanks,” he says before I can start a fourth layer, so I reluctantly stop.
Should I offer to do his front?
As much as I want to, I don’t have a good excuse. Then he takes the decision out of my hands, literally, by grabbing the honey jar.
Hey, at least our fingers brushed, sending more orgasmic zingers everywhere.
As I watch him apply the honey to himself, I yet again realize that I did not stir my honey pot enough for this kind of a show.
“How are you feeling?” he asks when he’s done.
I catch my breath. “Overheated.” And maybe more than a little buzzed.
He grins knowingly. “Time for the bucket.”
“Okay.” I gingerly step on the tile.
He takes the bucket and dunks the water over my head.
