AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Oh, God, thank you… That feels so good…
I let out a moan of appreciation and lay my head against the basin. Somewhere nearby, Demyen clears his throat. I don’t care. He can leave me to drown in this torture pool of his as long as it stays warm…
Oh. It’s a bathtub.
It’s the golden faucet that lets me know where I am. My head still kind of hurts, but not as much as it did earlier. I’m able to make out stone tiles, golden lights, thick white towels on a shelf, and eucalyptus wreaths decorating the walls.
I’m in a bathroom. I glance over to where Demyen is—fuck, he’s taking off his shirt—and realize this is probably his bathroom.
He tosses his shirt aside and turns to me. I swear he’s going to take off his jeans, but instead, he keeps them on and calmly saunters over to the side of the tub where he kneels.
“Lift your arms.” His voice is soft but firm. It’s an order he doesn’t feel the need to shout.
And I don’t feel the need to make him. I carefully lift my arms as much as I can, which isn’t that much, but he doesn’t scold me or yell at me. Instead, he calmly dips his hands into the rising water, grabs the bottom of my nightie, and pulls it up over my head.
“Hips.”
I stare at him. He stares back. There’s no arguing with him, as much as I want to. But the lace is also feeling increasingly uncomfortable as it rubs against my skin under the water, so I sigh and do my best to lift my hips so he can slide those off me, too.
I hate how good this bath feels. I want to glare at him, but I can’t. My limbs feel far too relaxed, especially after he pours what look like bath salts into the water and swirls them around with his hand.
Neither of us says a word to each other. I try not to look at him. Or at least, I try not to let him see me look at him. Hate him, fear him, whatever I feel about him… that is one chiseled torso. The memory of my legs wrapped around his waist enters my mind unbidden.
If he notices the way my thighs suddenly press together, he doesn’t say anything. His face is a mask of stoic resolve. After a few silent minutes of me soaking in the tub, Demyen just watching me, he grabs a sea sponge and lathers it with some sort of sudsy bath oil.
“Sit up.”
I don’t know why I obey him. Maybe it’s that fucked-up part of me that’s been trained my entire life to do whatever a man says. But I do as he says, tucking my knees to my chest while he pushes my hair over one shoulder.
He’sbathingme.
Demyen Zakrevsky is bathing me.
I want to laugh at the absurdity of this moment, but the rub of the sponge along my aching back feels too good. He presses just hard enough for it to feel almost like a massage, and his movements are slow and purposeful. One shoulder blade, then the other… and then down one side of my spine, up the other side… over and over.
He doesn’t say anything when he moves to my arms; he simply takes the one closest to him and lifts it up. He’s careful to wash every inch, from my shoulder to my armpit and all the way to my fingertips, where he massages each one with the sponge. When he needs to reach the other side, he moves behind the tub and crouches behind my head.
Demyen lowers my arms back into the water, rinsing the oily soap off my limbs. I think he’s done when he drops the sponge into the water, and I try not to feel as disappointed as I am.
But then I hear the sound of the soap pump, the slickness of his hands rubbing together… and he massages my shoulders. He uses the movements to guide me up along the side of the tub more, working the soap into my collarbone and kneading away knots of tension I’ve probably been carrying for years.
I can’t hold back the whimpers of relief that catch in my throat. If they bother him, I don’t know, because he still doesn’t say a word.
My lips part in a half-gasp, half-moan when his slick hands reach down and cup my breasts. He takes slow, steady strokes, wrapping his huge hands around the base of each one, rotating his fingertips to knead out painful knots I didn’t even know could exist there… then slowly, deeply squeezes and slides his hands around until my nipples are captured between his fingertips.
“Demyen…” I gasp his name. I don’t know why. I can’t see his face at this angle, and everything from his waist down is hidden by the tub.
Instead of responding with words, he does it with his hands, repeating the motion again… and again… until I’m unable tohide the writhing in my hips. Every time his fingers slide to my nipples, he teases them, tweaks them, caresses them, sending wave after wave of pleasure straight to my core.
Only when I’m a panting mess does he release my sensitive breasts and smooth his soapy hands down over my waist. But then he grabs the sponge again, and I have to force myself not to pout.
Demyen shifts his position around the tub to reach my legs, and finally, I can see the stormy look on his face. I’d easily mistake it for rage if I hadn’t already seen it on him that night at the hotel.
So I know what it really is.
Lust.
He takes hold of my calf and eases my leg up and close to him. The sponge starts rubbing at my ankle, and I let out another long, low moan of appreciation when he moves it along the arch of my foot.
