He removed my clothes with a reverence that made my skin tingle, his fingers tracing the curve of my hips as my dress pooled at my feet. He carried me to the bathtub, his strength both thrilling and comforting, and placed me carefully in the warm water that enveloped me like a cocoon. Then he got onto his knees beside the tub, his movements unhurried as he took the washcloth and slowly, methodically, washed my neck and shoulders, his touch gentle yet thorough.

His hands moved down my arms, the soap creating a slippery barrier that did little to dull the heat building between us. Then his hands went to my breasts, and I held my breath, expecting him to tease me, to linger, but he didn't. He just followed my order, washing my body clean with a composure that both frustrated and impressed me. I wanted his this composure to break. I wanted him desperate for me but unable to touch me, but he was literally doing exactly what I was saying, his expression unreadable as he completed his task.