WinterofThorns

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  That spurred him. Though he kept his hands clamped to his privates, he lifted his leg and stepped into the tub, nearly falling in as his other foot caught on the rim. It was a graceless recovery that deepened the heat bathing his cheeks. As quickly as he could, he sank down beneath the undulating waves of steam—keeping his eyes from straying to that sweet triangular patch as she joined him in the water. Water splashed over the edge when he drew his knees up to help hide the fierce erection that was pressing against his palms.

  It was all he could do to hold on to his cock and keep it at bay. The treacherous thing was as stiff as petrified wood and struggling mightily to escape the cage of his hands. Pain throbbed in his balls as the water lapped at her breasts and he had a tantalizing view of pert little nipples with each wave that washed over those creamy mounds.

  “Shall I wash your hair first?” she asked.

  “Umm,” was the best he could do. His tongue felt as though it were nailed to the roof of his mouth amid an arid wasteland that had drained away all moisture. That lump in his throat made it hard for him to draw a decent breath.

  The tub was large—a copper paradise he had always loved—but when she scooted toward him, came to wedge herself between his feet, it felt no bigger than a demitasse cup.

  “Wh-what are you…?” he mumbled.

  She put her hands on his knees to push his legs apart.

  “I need access to your hair, milord,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Else how can I wet it?”

  “Wet it?” he echoed.

  “Aye, Zonny,” she said, using his mother’s nickname for him. “I need to wet it. Bend forward so I can.”

  Obediently, he bent his body in half—wincing as his cock protested the pressure—and she began scooping handfuls of water on his head.

  “Close your eyes,” she ordered.

  When she had his thick hair sufficiently wet, she took the tube of shampoo sitting on the shelf beside the tub, opened it and poured a generous amount into her hand. She rubbed it between her palms then put her hands atop his head.

  “Ah,” he groaned as she began working the shampoo into his hair. Her fingernails grazing his scalp was the most enjoyable thing he’d ever felt.

  She lathered his hair until she was satisfied then told him again to make sure his eyes were closed before she scooped water over him to wash away the suds. Once that was done, she reached for the washcloth upon which sat an oval of pale-blue soap perched on the shelf beside her.

  “You can lift your head now,” she said, and when he did, it was all she could do to keep her smile in place. His eyes haunted her. The look deep inside those beautiful blue orbs tore at her soul. She vowed if it was the last thing she ever did, she would chase away the shadows that lurked behind the thick lashes that swept down to hide the pain from her.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said as she wet the cloth then ran the soap over it.

  “I want to,” she said then stilled her hands. “Would you rather I not bathe you?”

  “I want your hands on me, Jana,” he said gravely. “I need your hands on me. Do whatever you like to me.”

  “Challenging thing to say,” she said with a saucy toss of her head that threatened to topple the braid atop her head.

  “How so, milady?” He was mesmerized by the wicked gleam in her eye as she finished soaping the cloth then reached out to take his arm. He scrambled to keep the other arm down to hide the erection that wanted to bob upward.

  “Well the options are myriad, don’t you think?” she queried as she began dragging the soft cloth up and down his arm.

  “I suppose they are,” he acknowledged. He wished he could return her smile but his lips felt frozen.

  “And are limited only to one’s imagination.”

  “Then let your imagination run wild,” he told her.

  “I shall,” she said.

  Finished with his left arm, she moved to his right. He quickly replaced that hand with the other to hide himself from her. He saw her lips purse but she made no comment. As she worked, her breasts were caressed by the water and he dared not stare at them as he so longed to do.

  She scooted closer to him and he sucked in a breath. Her movement made it necessary for him to widen his thighs even more.

  “You need to put your arms on the sides of the tub, Zonny,” she ordered.

  “Wh-what?” he asked.

  “So I can bathe your chest and shoulders. And stop trying to hide your manhood from me. I am your wife and…” She leveled her gaze on his eyes. “It belongs to me.”

  He couldn’t have stopped his eyebrows from jacking up his forehead. Her words made his cock throb brutally and he couldn’t have spoken had his life depended upon it.

  “Put. Your. Arms. On. The. Rim. Of. The. Tub,” she commanded, still holding his shocked stare. “Now, Zonny.”

  He stared at her for a long moment then slowly moved his hand from his cock to slide his arms along the cool rim of the tub.

  “That’s better,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “But I’m really not comfortable kneeling like this. My knees hurt.” She sat down with her knees drawn up then stretched them out over his thighs—her feet bookending his hips.

  He simply could not find his voice or shut his open mouth. Stunned by what she was doing, feeling the heat baking his face, he gaped at her.

  “You have very powerful arms, milord,” she said conversationally. “There is great strength in them and the breadth of your shoulders tell me you are no stranger to the gym.” She looked from his shoulders to his face. “Lean your head back on the tub and close your eyes. Let me wash away the day’s problems.”

  He blinked. She was gazing back at him with the most beautiful expression and when she raised her eyebrows at his slowness in obeying her, he laid his head on the tub’s rim and reluctantly closed his eyes as she put the cloth to his shoulder where it met his neck.

  “And a nice thick neck,” she said, working the rag along his shoulder. “No thin pencil neck on my man.”

  He had to smile at that.

  She moved to his other shoulder and he sighed as the warm cloth smoothed over his skin.

  “I am very enamored of your chest,” she said as she ran the cloth along his pecs.

  “Are you now?” he asked. He cocked one eye open. “Not too hairy?”

  “Just hairy enough,” she said. “Very masculine. I like that.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Eyes closed please,” she remonstrated and he obeyed.

  He groaned again as she worked her way under his arms and down his sides.

  “Like that?” she asked.

  “Immensely,” he replied, feeling his heart begin to race for she had moved the cloth to his upper belly and was dragging it in broad circles over his navel. The thought of her touching his straining cock made him bite his tongue. As it dipped toward that part of him jumping up and down, wanting her touch, he slammed a hand into the water to grab her wrist. He opened his eyes.

  “Best leave that area for the last,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “As you wish,” she said without missing a beat and moved the cloth to his left thigh—taking his hand with her. “Arm on the tub, husband.”

  He released his hold and put his arm where he was directed, curling his fingers over the rim but kept his eyes open and his head raised for fear she’d mistakenly touch his cock.

  “Your thighs are so hard,” she said and he wanted to tell her that wasn’t all of him that was. “They are larger than I would have thought.”

  “I’m not particularly fond of them but that’s what happens when you do a lot of squats.”

  She told him to raise his knee so she could bathe the lower part of his leg.

  She frowned.

  “Something concerns you, milady?” he asked as he took in her narrowed eyes and clashing brows. When she looked up at him, there was an emotion playing across her face that he didn’t understand.

  “Where did you come
by this scar?” she asked, tracing a long white line that ran from the crease of his thigh to his knee.

  He shrugged. “It’s been there so long I don’t even notice,” he answered.

  “Where did you come by it?” she pressed.

  “My opponent got a bit angry when I accidentally caught his leg with my pike when we were training. He retaliated.”

  “Out of spite,” she said.

  He shrugged again. “Aye, but in fairness I drew first blood.”

  “Did you mean to hurt him?”

  “No, but—”

  “But he meant to hurt you,” she stated, her lips thinning.

  “It happens, sweeting. No harm; no foul,” he said. “I forgave him.”

  “Did he forgive you?” When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “Did he forgive you, Seyzon?”

  “He didn’t say he did but I think he regretted reacting as he did.”

  “Why did you not have the scar erased by a TAOS unit?” she questioned, searching his eyes.

  “He didn’t have his erased so neither did I.”

  “Did you want it erased?”

  “Aye, but…” He shrugged. He glanced down at the scar. “It’s not that bad.”

  Her beautiful face crinkled and she lowered her eyes. He reached out to tip up her chin. He was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

  “It was nothing, milady. Truly. I barely felt it.” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “Trust me when I say I hurt him far more than he did me.”

  She pulled her face from his light grip.

  “No you didn’t,” she whispered. She switched her attention to his right leg.

  It dawned on him that she must have seen the scar on Vindan’s leg. Must have asked him about it. He wondered what Vindan had said, how he’d explained what had happened but by the way she was industriously washing his leg, he didn’t dare ask her.

  “You have nice feet too,” she said as she lifted his leg. “It pleases me that your toes are straight and that you have no hair on the tops of your feet.” She tilted her head to one side as she washed his foot. “Although I prefer the hair on your legs.”

  And Vindan’s legs are nearly hairless, he thought, but the bastard had a pelt atop each instep. He also had hammertoes on both feet and funky toenails.

  Plus his feet stank. That thought made him chuckle and she looked up.

  “Did I say something humorous?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he lied. “You just tickled me.”

  She took a deep breath. “Nearly all of you is clean.”

  “Aye, I guess so.” He could feel the blood hammering in his ears.

  She extended the washcloth to him. “Best you finish then.”

  He arched his brows as he took the cloth. “Me?” he queried.

  She lithely rose to her feet, the water sluicing off her lovingly. He raised his head from the glistening water droplets clinging to the sweet patch between her thighs to the tender look she was giving him.

  “Best you hurry while the water is still warm, milord,” she said, preparing to get out.

  “What of you, milady?” He reached out to curl his hand around her knee. “What of your bath? You would deny me the opportunity to return the favor?”

  Her smile turned saucy. “Well, I am a bit dusty from the carriage ride,” she acknowledged.

  “I believe we should rid your hair of said dust,” he told her.

  She sank down into the water again. “I believe you are right, milord.” She reached up to unpin her hair then pulled the heavy braid over her shoulder and began undoing it. Looking pointedly at his groin, she lifted a brow.

  “Aye,” he said and soaped the cloth before plunging it beneath the water. Though he felt lightheaded as she watched his every stroke, he cleaned himself then scrubbed the cloth between his knuckles as though cleaning it too.

  “It will take a long time for my hair to dry,” she said. “What shall we do while we wait?”

  His slow grin brought color to her cheeks. “Oh, I can think of a few things,” he replied in a low voice. “Turn around.”

  Her brows drew together. “Excuse me?”

  “Turn around and lie down in the water. Your hair is too long for me to wet it otherwise.”

  “Oh,” she said and did as he asked. She scooted away from him then hooked her hands on the rim of the tub before lying back.

  Grateful the tub was as large as he was, he looked down at her beautiful face with her hair floating in a dark cloud around her. Her head was over his crotch and realizing that made his cock ache even more. To get his mind off wishing she was facedown in his lap, he draped the cloth over the edge of the tub and reached for the shampoo.

  She was looking up at him with a soft expression that made his heart—and another part of him—swell. Working the lather into the sleek curls, he wanted so badly to kiss her lush lips.

  “I like your mother,” she said then closed her eyes as he dug his fingernails lightly into her scalp.

  “I’m rather fond of her, myself.”

  “She’s a force to be reckoned with, isn’t she?”

  He chuckled. “She can be.”

  “Was she hard on you growing up?”

  “Not as hard as she was on Vindan,” he said. When she opened her eyes and looked quizzically at him, he cocked a shoulder. “He is her godson and since his own mother couldn’t be bothered with him, my mother was his surrogate mother. He was always getting into mischief when we were boys and my mother would be the one to discipline him.”

  “You lived at Wicklow?”

  “Aye. My father and King Nolan were first cousins. Their mothers were sisters. My grandmother was fifteen years older than Vindan’s grandmother. It was the king—then a prince—who introduced my parents. He was best man at their Joining. When my father died a few years after I was born, Prince Nolan insisted my mother go to live at Wicklow.” He plucked a damp tress of hair from her shoulder. “That was back when the border wars were at their worst and he feared for our safety at Lavenfeld.”

  “That was a bad time,” she said.

  “Aye, it was and families with any kind of royal connection—even as slight as ours was—were at risk of being kidnapped for ransom.”

  “Your father was much older than your mother, then.”

  “He was but he adored her and she cared deeply for him.”

  “Cared deeply,” she repeated. “Not loved?”

  “I always felt there was another man who owned my mother’s heart but I’ve never asked.”

  “She never remarried.”

  “She’s never expressed an interest in doing so,” he told her. “She’s a very independent lady.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Sit up,” he said and as she did, he gathered the length of her hair between his hands to gently wring the water from it. He haphazardly braided it then hung it over her shoulder. He took up the cloth, lathered it then began to run it over the curve of her shoulders and down her back.

  “I’m curious about something,” she said as she tugged on her braid as it hung over her breast. “Is Prince Vindan afraid of your mother?”

  “What man in his right mind would not be?” he countered with a laugh. “She’s formidable when she’s angry.” He worked the cloth down her right arm. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t think the prince had any intention of allowing me to come to you as soon as he did. I believe the decision was taken out of his hands by your mother’s intervention.”

  “He deeply respects her.” He switched the cloth to her other arm. “Always has but—more importantly—he loves her. She is the mother he never had. His own refused to nurse him, to even hold him. There were wet nurses and nannies instead. The queen left him at the dowager keep at Wicklow then promptly went on to have other children. How cruel is that?”

  “No wonder he is so starved for affection,” she mumbled.

  He stopped bathing her left arm. “You think that?”

 
; She nodded. “The prince is a very needy man. I feel sorry for him.”

  “Huh,” he said then finished with her arm, dismissing the bastard from his mind, disliking him even more in that moment because she felt pity for the prick. He hesitated for only a second or two. “Lean back.”

  She wriggled her sweet little ass until she was wedged between his legs, her rump pressed to his hard erection, her back to his chest. He extended his arm around her and the cloth dragged slowly across her flat stomach. Her indrawn breath told him what he was doing was making her insides quiver. Smiling to himself, he knew he was about to make her entire body shiver as soon as he raised the cloth to her breast.

  She did, indeed, tremble as he closed the cloth over her breast and gently circled the firm flesh. There was no doubt in his mind that despite the softness of the material, the contact it made with her nipple was sending chills down her side. Her fidgeting told him as much.

  Sliding the cloth to the other breast, he lowered his head to plant a kiss on her shoulder when it met her neck.

  “Milord,” she sighed.

  “Milady,” he whispered against her flesh and kissed his way up to her ear. She accommodated him by turning her face slightly to the right. He lightly clinched her earlobe between his teeth. All the while, he circled her breast with the cloth—pressing lightly with each circuit. He glanced down for she clamped her legs tightly together. Looking up through his eyelashes, he saw her knuckles were white where they gripped the rim of the tub.

  “I want you,” he whispered into her ear, his lips grazing the soft folds.

  “Aye,” she answered on a long exhale of breath.

  He let the cloth drop from his hand, moved it so he was cupping her right breast. Brought his other hand up to cup her left.

  She sagged against him, her head lolling to the side for he was probing her ear with his tongue, his hot breath—his teeth nipping deliciously at her lobe.

  “You do things to my body that are illegal on many worlds,” she told him.

  “Enjoyable things, I hope,” he whispered back then moved his head so he could give her other ear the attention it deserved—kissing his way from her shoulder, up her neck to press his tongue into her ear.