I'm still sore--my muscles tight and my bruises tender--but those aches are nothing compared to the burning need that Dallas's touch is driving within me. I don't care about the pain or the stiffness or the exhaustion that seems to pull me down like weights sinking in a churning ocean. All I want is his touch. All I care about is that I am back in his arms.
I know that he can tell how desperate I am. How could he not? This is the man who anticipates my needs. Who knows me at least as well as I know myself. And there is no way that he can miss the desire that I know is so palpable it must be wafting off my body like perfume.
I crave his body against mine. I long for wildness. For heat. For bone-melting passion.
And yet it doesn't come.
Instead, he teases me with soft touches and gentle strokes, and I moan softly, biting my lip to keep from begging as his fingertip traces up and down my arm, the sensual rhythm soothing me even as it stokes the embers of my growing passion.
I know what he is doing--he is tending me. Coddling and protecting me. I can feel the tension in his touch, a tightness that underlies the slow and easy sensuality of his caresses. He wants to lose himself in the fire as much as I do, and yet he's holding back. Reining in his own desire in order to pamper me.
But, dammit, I want more than just gentle touches. And though I say nothing, I shift my body, arching my back so that my breasts rise out of the water in a not-so-subtle hint. I want to feel everything building inside me, and then, dammit, I want to explode.
Dallas, however, steadfastly refuses to satisfy me. Instead, he continues his leisurely assault. Fingertips tracing from my shoulder to my wrist. His lips brushing my forehead, his tongue teasing my ear. I feel a throbbing demand between my thighs, and I can't hold back any longer. "Please. Dallas, please."
He says nothing, but the lazy progression of his fingers shifts direction, slipping easily up my arm to caress my shoulder, careful to avoid the still red and tender scrapes from where I fell back on it. Slowly, his fingers tease down toward my breasts. So slowly that I can hardly stand the anticipation, and I hold my breath, waiting for that sweet moment when his finger will caress my nipple.
He draws out the torment--and the pleasure. Slowly, he cups my breast, slipping his hand into the water before bringing his dampened fingers out to toy with my nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as I bite my lip and moan, losing myself in the fiery pleasure now throbbing between my legs.
"Do you like that?" His lips brush my ear as he speaks, and a flurry of sparks course through me.
"Yes. Oh, god yes."
"Tell me what you want."
"You. More. Please." I have been reduced to single syllables, and I slide my hand down beneath the bubbles and between my legs.
Gently he reaches under the water, takes my wrist, and tugs my hand away. "Oh, no, baby. That's for me."
"Then touch me, dammit."
"Whatever the lady wants," he says, his low voice rumbling with amusement. He stands, moving forward a bit so he's now in my field of vision. His jeans and T-shirt are damp, but he doesn't seem to notice. As for me, all I'm noticing is that he's no longer touching me, and I whimper in protest.
A slow grin plays across his mouth as he leans over to turn the taps back on. The tub has a handheld nozzle, and as he lifts it from its hook, he orders me to stand up, then flips the toggle to drain the tub.
I shiver a bit now that I'm out of the tub, but Dallas soon aims the gentle spray over my body, warming me and sending clusters of bubbles sliding down my skin to melt in the tub before swirling down the drain. He's thorough in his washing of me, aiming the spray at my shoulders, then down the curve of my back. He circles around and concentrates on my breasts, then slowly moves the nozzle down and down until the spray is gently teasing between my thighs. With a little gasp, I spread my legs, wanting more.
He doesn't disappoint, and I release an impassioned moan when he aims the spray at my clit, then reaches between my legs with a cloth to carefully cleanse me, the friction making my core clench tight. I close my eyes, then reach blindly for the towel bar, wanting to steady myself for the storm I know is coming.
Except it doesn't.
I open my eyes, confused.
"Not just yet," he says.
Bastard.
"In that case, I may as well get out." I start to reach for the towel, but he beats me to it.
"Tonight, I'm taking care of you." Slowly--gently--he eases the towel over my body, drying me off, and, in the process, igniting my senses even more. I know it's intentional, and I bite my lip so as to not beg for a more intimate touch. I already know damn well he's not going to touch me until he's ready. And I know that he wants me to beg.
Right now, I'm determined to practice the art of self-control.
I manage for a while. My breath is shaky as he strokes the towel over my breasts, then slides it behind my neck before easing it between my legs. I sigh when he finally wraps me, warm and soft and safe, in the thick terry cloth, then lifts me effortlessly into his arms.
I snuggle against him as he carries me to the bedroom. It's still a mess, filled with open boxes, books, papers, and clothes piled up in corners. He sits me on the edge of the bed, then brushes the hair off my face. I feel like a child, being soothed after a bad dream, and yet there is nothing childlike about the way his touch makes me feel.
"Dallas," I say, and it's all that I say. But I know he hears the plea in my voice.