Page 209 of Savior
“Yes. The lavender shit, please.” She shakes her head at me, before she ambles back down the hall to the bedroom with her plate of apple slices and peanut butter.
By the time I’ve got the lavender scented bubble bath prepared, a couple of her aroma therapy candles lit for a little ambiance, and a champagne flute with ginger ale, all ready for her, this romantic bath for two won’t be happening. My little Peony has fallen asleep in our bed, curled up on her side with a pillow, and her apple slices.
Fuck, she’s so damn precious. That cherubic little face, cuddled against my pillow. Not even her own. I don’t want to wake her up. Quietly walking over to the bed, I take the plate of apple slices and place it down on the night table.
There’s a chance she could wake up at any moment and join me, though. No sense in letting a perfectly good bath go to waste.
Stripping off my clothes, I decide to wait for her to join me in the tub, and see what all the rage is about this lavender shit, for myself. I could use a little relaxation, anyway.
Biting my lip, I try not to laugh at the sight of Dean, sound asleep, with his head back against the edge of the tub, arms dangling over either side, lightly snoring in a fluffy cloud of lavender scented bubbles pushed up behind his shoulders.
Grabbing the little vanity stool from beneath the counter near the mirror, I set it down quietly beside him and lower myself onto it.
In the flickering candle light, I can’t help but admire the man that is to be my husband. He really is something to behold. Asleep, the perpetual tension that so often strains his handsome features during most days, is absent now. He looks so peaceful. Untroubled. And as I study his face, there’s an underlying, vulnerable innocence about him, despite his sinfully sexy body. His dark lashes and high cheek bones. That perfect, sandpapery jawline. His soft lips I love molding mine against.
Dean Keegan is lethally gorgeous.
I let my fingers lightly trail across his strong shoulder, along his collar bone, then down between his hard, pectoral muscles. He stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. I open my hand and gently press it against the Scorpion on his chest, feeling the now relaxed muscle he often flirtatiously flexes to make this Scorpion move. Even in sleep, his dangerously masculine form remains taut. Moving my hand further south, below the surface of the now, only warm, water, I slowly run my hand down his sculpted torso, over his defined, hard abs, and lower still.
The slightest little moan emanates from his throat, and I wonder if he’s dreaming, or waking.
A good portion of bubbles in the water have cleared, and I can see his sexy v-cut, allowing my eyes to drift lower still. He’s hinted, more than a time or two, that there’s no better way to be woken up… Gently taking him in my hand, a soft sigh escapes his now parted lips, and his cock stirs beneath my touch.
Stroking my fingers softly along his hardening length, a low growl rumbles up his throat, before he groggily mumbles, “You’re naughty, little Peony.”
I smile as he opens his eyes, a slight grin pulling at his own mouth now as well.
“What are you doing?” he asks, lifting his head off the back of the tub. He moves his arms to lay them along the edge on either side.
“Admiring what’s mine.” I say.
“Well then, carry on.” It’s almost as if he’s daring me, playing up that sexy vocal fry of his. I’ve never actually jerked him off before. Not to completion, anyway. It’s always been a form of foreplay.
“You don’t want to rinse off and join me in bed?” I ask.
Over the last few weeks, we haven’t been as sexually active. I know the stress of the situation with the CDMC could be partially to blame for his lack of interest lately. But a part of me wonders, if there isn’t another contributing factor, he’s just too kind to me to mention. That being, I’m practically the size of a small house. Not very lust inspiring, I imagine.
“But you were doing so well.” He teases, lifting his hips to force his cock through my gentle grip for a deeper stroke.
And there it is again. That underlying rejection. I suppose I can’t blame him, though. Whether he’s just less attracted to me now, or simply overly protective of my delicate condition, I don’t know.
I stroke him some more. “You like this?”
“Your hand on my cock?” he crooks a brow, then tilts his chin at me, as if to beckon me nearer. I lean closer to him, and our lips meet as I work my hand leisurely along his manhood, his veins becoming more defined beneath my fingertips. I kiss him, softly at first. But as his need grows, his kiss becomes more impassioned.
Reaching up, he slips his fingers into my hair, then gently grips the back of my neck, pulling me closer to him still. Angling our kiss in such a way that I’m slightly above him, an eager groan escapes him as his jaw slackens, an invitation to slip my tongue into the hot, smooth cavern of his mouth. I can’t help but smile against his lips.
“What?” he growls, trying to coax me back into our make-out session, while I continue to stroke him beneath the surface of the water.
I know he’s trying to tempt me into kissing him that way I first did on the beach.
“You’re obsessed.” I tease him.
“With you. Yes. I am.” He declares, no qualms about it. “Do you want me to beg for it? Or will you just take what belongs to you?”
He holds me harder against his mouth as he kisses me more amorously. Not so much a beg, but a demand.
“My soul, Love. Take it.” He growls. “Kiss me the way you did that night, when you first claimed it.”
