“Why would I sit there?”
Even though Pell looks like every other beautiful man in this room, I don’t really see Pell the man. I see Pell the monster. But not in a bad way. In fact, I don’t like this version of him. Sure, he’s handsome—he has human legs and no horns or hooves—but… it’s not really him, is it?
Until he grins at me. Until the illusion falters and those wild, straw-colored eyes of his light up with amusement. And then there he is. “Because,” he says, “I’m gonna wash your feet, Pie.”
“You? You’re gonna wash my feet?” There is no way to stop my laugh.
Pell just pushes me over to the bench. “Sit. I’ll show you how it’s done. And then”—he leans down into my ear again, whispering—“you’ll see.”
I sit. But I’m grinning up at him. Blushing too. “I’ll see what?”
He kneels down in front of me and takes my foot in his hands, caressing it softly, the pads of his thumbs pressing into the fleshy middle. “At no point during this foot-washing will I ever feel like a slave, Pie Vita. That’s what I want you to see.”
“Oh.” I’m… well. A little speechless. Because did he just insinuate that I will enjoy washing his feet after this is over because he’s going to show me how good it feels?
I try to quickly think up a sassy comeback, but he gets up and walks off, heading towards the corner of the room where there is yet another, smaller fountain, while I remain where he left me, tongue-tied.
Even if I tried, there would be no way to take my eyes off Pell as he procures a large shallow dish and fills it with water so hot, there is steam coming off it, even though this room is already the temperature of Rome in August. He grabs a cloth off a tray being held up by a gorgeous young woman with one shoulder of her toga thing pulled down to reveal one large breast.
And when I look around, I realize all the women with clothes on all have at least one breast exposed. And even though there are many, many naked people in this room, the single-breast thing is provocative for some reason.
When he arrives back at my feet he bends down, placing the bowl on the floor. Then he carefully lifts up one foot, slides the bowl underneath it, then picks up my other foot and rearranges the bowl so both of my feet are immersed in the hot water. He does all this with a surprising amount of gentleness. And he keeps grinning at me. Like he’s got something up his sleeve. “You’re gonna like this. Trust me.”
I don’t need to trust him. There is no possible way in hell I’m not going to enjoy this foot-washing thing. My entire body is buzzing with anticipation as well as… other sensations. And he hasn’t even started yet.
A young man bends down to the slave washing feet to my left, offering him pots of things. Pell takes two pots and one of them has a honey dipper.
He’s looking straight at me when he places both the pots on the floor next to the bowl. I don’t know how he manages to keep a straight face, but he does. Meanwhile, I’m ready to burst out laughing. Not because this is funny, but because I’m embarrassed. I don’t know how to feel about any of it.
“You’re blushing, Pie. And I haven’t even started yet.”
“I know,” I breathe. And then I laugh. “But I can’t help it. There’s something—”
But I can’t even finish my sentence because he takes my foot in his hand and begins massaging his fingers up my calf, pressing on and kneading the muscles. I let out an involuntary moan and have to bite my lip to stop these unexpected noises from falling out of my mouth.
It should not feel this way. He doesn’t have his fingers between my legs. He’s not kissing me, not whispering things into my ear. He’s not doing much of anything and yet it feels like he’s in total command of me in this moment and I’m ready to beg for more.
Like what the hell?
And then I let out a squeak.
“Everything OK, Pie?” He knows what he’s doing. Of course he does. He’s two thousand years old. He’s done this many times, to many women—or men. He understands perfectly well how good it feels. And he wants me to understand it too. So that when we get back home, and I do this for him, I will remember this feeling and I will picture him enjoying my attention the way I enjoyed his.
I point at him. “You’re sneaky.” But my words are already breathless. Already heavy with lust and dripping with longing.
Pell says nothing. Just continues to massage my feet and legs.