Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Pashov extends his other arm, and I obediently move to that side, dragging the cloth up one bicep and then down his forearm. I think about telling him another story of us—maybe of Pacy’s birth—but this moment feels so intense that I don’t want to distract from it. He’s silent, the only sound his harsh breathing and the flicking, distracted whisk of his tail against the floor.
And the rumble of his khui, of course. I can hear it, just as I can feel my own humming in my chest at my arousal. I slide the cloth over his shoulder and move it slowly over one pectoral. I should probably re-wet it, but I’m not all that interested in the water aspect of this bath at the moment. I’m far more interested in his reaction to my touch, because Pashov has never been very good at hiding how he feels. I don’t have to look in his eyes to know that his gaze is intent on my face. I can feel them, burning. I’m utterly aware of everything he’s doing, the little movements of his body as he shifts on his feet, the unceasing flicking of his tail, the pounding of his heart making a rhythm against the song of his khui. His hands clench at his sides, and I suspect he wants to touch me but is trying very hard not to in case he scares me off.
I’m not going anywhere.
I trail the cloth down his hard abdomen. He’s nothing but rock-hard muscle in his stomach, without an ounce of fat. I love tracing the lines between each muscle, counting the six-pack that’s so clearly defined. The thick protective plating on the center of his chest ends near his navel, and then it’s nothing but soft blue skin. I swipe my cloth there, too, because I know he’ll be able to feel it even more down here. I peek down, and his massive erection is straining hard against the breechcloth he’s sporting.
My mouth goes dry at the sight. How long has it been since we had sex? A few days at least. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t have sex with Pashov again until I was centered and I was sure I wouldn’t cry. I definitely don’t feel like crying right now. It doesn’t have to be sex, though. It can be touching, just for the pure pleasure of caressing my mate and seeing his reaction.
There’s so much I need to teach him again.
“Do you remember me touching you?” I ask him, the cloth hovering at his navel.
He groans heavily. “I wish.”
“Then you don’t remember all the times I touched you…like this?” With my free hand, I drag my hand along the length of his cock.
The breath hisses between his teeth. “Keep going. I will see if it stirs my memory.”
I chuckle, amused. My sweet Pashov. So funny and flirty, even in moments like this. I gaze up at him, and he’s watching me with hooded eyes, arousal stamped clearly on his strong face. I stroke my hand up and down his cock again, through the leather, and watch his mouth tighten imperceptibly.
His tail flicks hard against my leg.
“Shall I stop?” I ask lightly.
“Never.”
“Thought that might be the answer.” I tilt my head and pretend to study him. “Should I take off your loincloth?”
His slow, intense nod is delicious.
Tomorrow, I decide, I’m going to teach him how to kiss again. Not right now, because I don’t want to distract from what I’m doing and the fact that tonight is going to be all about me pleasuring him. Tomorrow, I’ll show him how to kiss again—long, slow kisses and short, passionate ones and all the kisses in-between. Tomorrow, I’ll make a game of it.
Today, though, I’m in the mood to tease. And so I’m not stopping what I’m doing. I toss the wet cloth aside, all pretense of washing him gone. After I’m done with him, he can scrub himself as much as he wants. I don’t think he’s going to mind where this is going. I tug on one side of his breechcloth, and the ties come apart in my hand. The leather slides away and falls down his leg and his cock is exposed, thrusting into the open air, so thick and eager for my touch that it’s practically rubbing against his spur.
I sigh happily at the sight. I wasn’t a virgin when I landed here, and I knew my way around a guy’s junk, but I can safely say that my mate has the biggest, juiciest cock I’ve ever put my hands on. He’s thick and girthy exactly where he should be, the head prominent, and the ridges along the length of him are perfection. I wrap my fingers around him and sink to my knees in front of Pashov. “You tell me if you want me to slow down,” I whisper.