Stolen by the Zandian (Zandian Brides 7)

He takes me to the facility and presses a button. A pneumatic door of a cylindrical chamber slides open. He nudges me inside, and I jerk back and resist, suddenly afraid of whatever it is he’s trying to do to me.

“Easy, little warrior. It’s just for washing—it’s not a prison.” He steps back to let me retreat from it. “Here, I’ll go first.” He steps into the cylinder. “You’ll remove your clothing and step in. This button activates washing.” He points at a button on the inside wall. “The tube door will close, and the cylinder fills with water and soap, then empties, rinses you and blows warm air to dry your skin.”

My stomach is still drawn up tight in defense mode. It could be some kind of trick. I’ve never seen such a device before.

Khrys glances at me and must see I still don’t trust him. His horns lift and tilt apart from each other. He frowns and steps out. I quickly dart backward. His frown deepens. “Kailani, watch me,” he commands.

He pulls his white tunic off his head. I swallow, eye-to-chest with his massive bare trunk, powerful and muscled. A peachy-purple map of ridges and valleys. He holds my gaze steadily as he toes off his boots, then tucks his thumbs in the waistband of his leggings and peels them down and off. He has no underclothing beneath them, and his semi-hard cock springs out and bobs.

I try to swallow but fail. When I lift my gaze from his malehood, he’s still staring directly at me. His brown irises seem to have deepened to violet. His horns have thickened and lean my way. “It’s like this,” he says, stepping backward into the shower, without removing his steady gaze from mine.

My nipples tighten beneath the clothing he provided me. The curious warmth he incited yesterday after my punishment returns—heat coiling in my low belly, between my legs.

I don’t mean to, but somehow, I find myself stepping forward, as if magnetically drawn to his body when he moves away. He continues to hold me captive with his intense gaze. Out of my periphery, I see his cock grow stiffer, pointing at me while he presses the button on the shower wall.

The door slides shut, and he’s blocked from my view. I draw in several deep steadying breaths as the sound of water pouring into the small tube fills my ears. The washroom grows steamy.

There’s nothing to see anymore—the door is closed—and yet, I remain standing in the same place, staring at the washtube as if I might see through its walls and watch the giant warrior bathe.

Does he find it pleasurable? The water must be warm, considering how the room has steamed up. Something changes, and the water stops flowing. A gurgling sound indicates the water draining. A citrus-spice scent fills the room—must be the soap. I hear motors come to life—the air blowers he referred to. Then the pneumatic door slips open. Even though I just saw him naked a moment ago, the gorgeous spectacle hits me full-force again. Huge, muscular purple male invades every sense. His thickened horns and cock both point toward me like I’m their compass home.

I dart forward to pick up his leggings and hand them to him like a house-slave because I’m far too affected by the sight than I want to be.

“Ready to try?” he rumbles.

Try…? All I can think of is his cock. Am I ready to try sex? Ready to try him. Ready to r

ide that huge, thick member.

But then I realize... he must mean the washtube.

“Oh! Um, yes.” I bob my head. “Yes, I’ll try now. Thank you.” I sound breathless.

He steps into his leggings and picks up his tunic but doesn’t put it on. He also doesn’t leave.

“I, um, don’t need help,” I say in a rush. “I think I understand now.”

He inclines his head and walks out of the washroom, closing the door behind him. I feel the loss of him everywhere. I even step toward the door as if to follow—to call back to him and say, actually, could he show me the washtube again? Or maybe, step into it with me and wash me with those huge purple hands of his?

I shake my head to clear the thoughts and strip out of my clothing. In the washtube, I press the button as he indicated. Water rushes in from all sides—so must faster than I expected. I bite back a shriek of surprise. The water is warm, extremely pleasant, just vigorous. It massages my body in a dozen places with the hard streams. The washtube fills rapidly. In a moment it’s up to my waist. Then my shoulders. Will it stop?

I tip my head up toward the ceiling, suddenly terrified of drowning. I draw a deep breath before it covers my head! I open my eyes and the soap stings them. I squeeze them shut again. Just as my panic begins to surge, the water level drops away, draining as rapidly as it rose.

The citrusy smell fills my nostrils, making me think of Khrys, even though it will be me, now, who smells this way, too. Thinner streams of water spray my body, rinsing the soap from it, and then the warm air blows fast and hard, drying every drop.

The door automatically opens, and I find myself reluctant to step out. Sorry it’s over. Now that I know how it works, I want to do it again. I’ve had very few moments in my life where my body experienced pleasure. One of them was last night when Khrys brought me to orgasm.

This morning, waking in his arms.

Now this.

All the experiences were new and therefore somewhat stressful, so I only half-enjoyed them.

This one I can simply repeat with the press of a button. But would it be wasteful? Would Khrys reprimand me?

The thought of his reprimand makes my inner thighs squeeze together. Maybe I want a repeat of that experience as well.

I push the button again, an unfamiliar smile curving my lips as the cycle begins again.