J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [265]
Dearest Virgin Scribe, he smelled fantastic.
The copper zipper went down slowly, and she had to hold the two halves of the waistband together because of the angle she was working from. When she let go, the front burst open. Beneath the leathers, he wore a tight loin cover in black, which was a relief.
Of sorts.
The bulge of his sex in it made her swallow hard.
She was about to ask him if she should continue when she looked up and realized he was gone, for all intents and purposes. Either she kept at what she was doing, or he was going under the water partially dressed.
As she tugged the leather down his thighs to his knees, her eyes stuck to the male flesh that was cradled in soft cotton. She remembered what it had felt like when he had come up against her body in his sleep. What she was looking at now had seemed much larger then, and it had been stiff as it pressed into her hip.
That was the change of arousal, wasn’t it. The previous Directrix’s stern lecture on the mating ritual had detailed all about what happened when males grew ready for sex.
Had detailed too the pain females bore from that hardened staff.
Forcing herself to stop thinking along those lines, she sank into a kneeling position to do away with the pants and realized she should have taken the boots from his feet first. Fighting her way through the folds of leather at his ankles, she managed to get one boot off by leaning into his legs and forcing him to shift his weight. She went to work on the other side . . . and found the foot that wasn’t real.
She kept going, not pausing even a moment. His infirmity didn’t matter to her, although she wished she knew how he had been injured so badly. It must have been in fighting. To sacrifice so much for the race . . .
The leathers came off the same way the boots did: with an awkward series of pulls that the Primale didn’t seem to notice. He simply stood on whichever foot she let him have on the marble, as steady as an oak. When she finally glanced up again, there were but two adornments on his body: his loin cover, which had the words Calvin Klein around the waistband, and the metal rods and foot that filled the gap between his right knee and the floor.
She went over and opened the door to the spray chamber. “Your grace, the falling bath is ready for you.”
His head swiveled to her. “Thank you.”
In a quick surge he swept the loin cover off and walked toward her, naked.
Cormia’s breath stopped. His massive sex hung soft and long from its base, the blunt head swinging slightly.
“Will you stay while I shower?” he said.
“Wha . . . ah, is that what you wish?”
“Yes.”
"Then I . . .Yes, I shall stay.”
Chapter Eleven
The primale disappeared behind the glass, and Cormia watched him back up to the spray, his magni ficent hair flattening down as it grew wet. With a groan, he arched his back and lifted his hands to his head, his body forming an elegant, powerful curve as the water ran through his hair and over his chest.
Cormia bit her lower lip as he reached to the side and picked up a bottle. There was a sucking noise as he squeezed it over his palm once . . . twice. . . . He returned it to its resting place, then brought his hands to his hair to massage his locks. Foaming clumps ran down his forearms and dropped off his elbows onto the tile at his feet. The spicy scent wafting up reminded her of the outdoor air.
With her knees feeling unreliable, and her skin warm as the water he was in, Cormia sat down on the marble edge of the Jacuzzi.
The Primale took a bar of soap, worked it between his palms, and washed his arms and his shoulders. The scent told her it was the same kind she used and it mingled beautifully with whatever he’d washed his hair with.
To her chagrin, she found the suds running down his torso and his hips and his heavy, smooth thighs were worthy of jealousy, and she wondered if he would have let her join