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Tentatively, I put my fingers on his palm.
Yet resisted when he drew me to stand. Still, he pulled me upright, wrapping his arm around my waist, physically urging me toward another area of the room.
A pair of plush chairs waited, angled so mates might enjoy conversation or relax in one another’s company. That was where he’d been sitting when I awoke. Where he waited while I bathed. And where he intended me to settle me now, so he might kneel at my feet.
Pulling a short ottoman under his hips, he took a seat. Even still, he was large enough to remain at my eye level, far too close, holding my gaze when he reached for my foot.
He had told me to obey, or else….
The chair was soft under me, luxurious in a way I had never known a chair to be. The perfect spot to curl up for a nap between drills or daydream about the fog. But I could not relax into it, pressing my thighs together with my spine ramrod straight.
Resting my heel atop his bent knee, he encased my foot in warm hands, the pair of his thumbs digging into my arch. He began to knead the skin in deep strokes, working toward my toes.
Bracing against the armrest, my back bowed when he did it a second time. What in the hell was this?
Smirking at my reaction, he asked, “Am I pressing too hard?”
Huffing, glaring, I refused to reply, fighting the urge to relax as he manipulated my anatomy in astounding ways.
After a hard day at the academy, I had worked the tension out of my feet when training left them sore, but never had anyone else done this for me or with such skill. I mean, why would they?
It was so… intimate.
His smile made his deep voice all the richer. “You are welcome to close your eyes and relax. Let me ease your heat while you enjoy.”
Suppressing a groan when he began to knead the tender place below my toes, I melted unwittingly back against the chair.
I even felt a bit of relief. This was indeed preferable to sex.
Strong hands swept to my ankle, fingers undulating as they stroked and squeezed. Slumped back, I watched him like a hawk through the slit of my lashes.
When he dared bring those knowing hands higher to cup my calf, I just about kicked him in the face. But those deft fingers spread the muscles behind the bone in such a beautiful way.
I became liquid.
He spent a great deal of time moving between my foot, my ankle, my calf, and my knee, cognizant of how to manipulate my anatomy to release each knot and soothe every muscle.
Low, measured breaths relaxed my chest, as I grew both distrustful and languid. Even disappointed when he set my foot back on the floor. Mollified when he began the same process on the other side.
He was enjoying this, his normally harsh mouth soft. “Do you still feel hot?”
Nothing like what I had endured over dinner. His plan worked wonders for the fever. “Much better.”
Lazy eye contact hung between us when he lifted my foot and pressed a kiss to my skin.
That was too far.
Growling a warning, with a sluggish pull, I tried and failed to remove my leg from his grip.
Laughing, he nipped the side of my foot. A zing from his teeth was not at all painful but very unexpected.
Shrill, I blurted, “Stop that!”
Still laughing, he went right back to kneading his thumbs into my arch. “Why?”
“It’s not funny!”
He smirked. “I disagree. When you blush, it’s very cute.”
