chapter 6: Soapy and wet

"Go on, wash me." His voice was a velvet command, low and decadent, each syllable stroking her pride like a lash.

She was a lady of noble birth; this was beneath her.

Yet something in his molten gaze warned her: refusal would come with a price far heavier than this small surrender.

Her dress clung to her body, soaked and translucent, a second skin under the jealous stares of the other women.

The bath water, warm and fragrant, swirled with petals, its scent a seductive haze that threatened to drown her resolve.

Her trembling fingers reached for a cloth, dipping it into the steaming water and squeezing it out, her eyes never leaving his.

He watched her with a lazy smile, a predator reveling in the submission of its prey. Her movements were slow, tentative as she pressed the cloth to his neck.

The heat of his skin seared her palm through the fabric, and the soap trailed down his chest in glistening rivulets, painting his sculpted torso in shimmering streaks.

She didn't know what madness took hold of her, what spellbound her into moving closer, into leaning in.

Her tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of his skin as she licked from his jawline to the curve of his neck.

It was unsoaped, clean, pure and she felt the vibration of his growl reverberate against her lips. His pleasure was palpable, intoxicating, and it made her bold.

Her hand slipped lower, tracing the defined ridges of his abdomen before wrapping, trembling, around his cock.

Soap coated her palm, her fingers slick as they encased him. His breath hitched, a sharp hiss followed by a low, guttural growl.

"That's it… good girl," he murmured, his voice a silken praise that coiled low in her belly.

His golden eyes burned into hers, a smoldering furnace of desire, and she never once broke their connection.

Her clean fingers slid into his mouth, her other hand stroking him with deliberate, languid motions.

His lips closed around her fingers, his tongue warm and wet as he tasted her, his gaze dark with unspoken promises.

Around them, the other women dared to approach, placing soft kisses along his shoulders and arms, their touch featherlight. But they knew better than to interfere with her.

This was hers, her moment, her dominion, marked by the growing thickness in her hand.

His head tipped back as she claimed him with increasing fervor. Her soapy hand tightened, moving with rhythm and purpose.

His growl deepened, and she tangled her fingers into his damp hair, tugging him down to meet her lips.

She bit his lower lip softly, teasingly, drawing another sound from him that was pure, primal pleasure.

And then, with a shudder and a guttural moan, his release poured into her hand, warm and undeniable.

The scent of him, the feel of him, the taste of his breath, all of it burned into her senses like a brand.

Horror crashed over her as the haze lifted. Her hands trembled, her chest heaving as she stepped back, the reality of her actions slicing through the heat like a blade.

"Oh my goodness," she gasped, her voice cracking with panic. "I'm so sorry."

She fled, her wet dress clinging to her like a scarlet letter, his satisfied gaze a phantom that haunted her every step.

Behind her, his smirk lingered, the faint curl of his lips a testament to his victory