Page 88 of Blood of Olympus

She swallowed roughly as that hand drifted lower, lingering over the curve of her neck, wavering over the lines of her shoulder. I paused and watched, enraptured, as goosebumps bloomed on her moonlit skin underneath my hand.

She loosed a heavy breath, closed her eyes, and tilted her face upward — as if praying to some far-off deity.

But the only gods here were us.

And the only one I worshipped was her.

I would not be the one to cross this chasm between us. No — she had set the order not to touch, so she could be the one to rescind it.

Perhaps I could tempt her just as fiercely, though.

With all the allure I could muster, I unlaced the front of my breeches and rolled them down my legs. My lips twisted into a smug grin when her gaze snagged on my hardened length springing free — but my bravado wavered when the pants hooked on my ankles, ruining the moment with my apparent inadequacy to undress.

Nyssa’s soft snort made my cock twitch, and her eyes snagged on that movement too.

I wanted nothing more than to seize her; to capture her lips with mine and whisper entirely ungodly things against them. Instead, she forced me down onto the built in seat and removed my tangled breeches in one quick motion.

Her naked body sidled closer, slipping between my spread legs, and — fuck me sideways with a bident — she leaned in. Close enough that her breasts were in line with my nose, and if I turned my face even thirty degrees to the right, I’d be nuzzling them.

She pulled back with a wicked grin, clutching an emerald-coloured vial in her left hand. It was only then that I realised she’d placed me directly under the shelf that housed her assortment of soaps and shampoos, and had not actually been taunting me with her peaked nipples, but had been reaching for the glass jar instead.

Nyssa’s lips pursed, her grin crooked and vexatious.

What? she said through the bond. It’s only soap. It won’t eat you.

I eyed her intensely, leaning forward to rest on my elbows. No, but you might. Or perhaps you’d enjoy being the one eaten.

A copper tinge flooding her cheeks was the only outward sign that she’d heard me.

You wish, she quipped with forced nonchalance.

Oh, you have no idea, I growled back.

Something about the intimacy of speaking this way sent shivers down my spine. It was like our souls were brushing up against each other, like we couldn’t possibly be any closer — yet a foot separated our bodies… and I was about done with that.

Before I could act on my relentless desire to pull her close, she tipped the vial over, pouring pink-tinted liquid into her cupped fingers. Those fingers then speared through my hair, lathering the soap into my short locks, massaging my scalp fastidiously.

I’d be a lying son of a bitch if I said it didn’t feel heavenly. My mother may be a bitch, but I was no lying son.

I went limp, instantly turning to putty in her hands. She laboured until I was certain my hair would sparkle in the sunlight, then rinsed it out with the moveable showerhead. When the water ran clear, she brought it lower, taunting me with nothing more than a stream of warm water.

And all the while, I stared at her.

I watched her work, meticulously erasing the stains of war from my body with reverent diligence. I noticed how her long fingers massaged soapy circles into my skin, felt the callouses on her palms when they grazed my thigh, committed to memory the way the skin between her brows puckered as she lost herself to the task she’d resolved to undertake. For me.

“There,” she said softly, placing the nozzle back in its slot on the wall. “All clean now.”

Hardly.

“Can I touch you yet?” I asked, need straining my throat so that it came out as barely more than a strangled whisper.

That crooked smile reappeared as she stepped back between my thighs.

Then kneeled.

Fuck.

“Almost,” she whispered back, eyeing me even as she wrapped one hand carefully around my aching cock.