10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Nico
I watch her as she lies there, sprawled on her stomach, a beautiful, debauched mess. Her ass is pink from my hand, a perfect, rosy flush that makes my cock twitch with a fresh wave of arousal. Her hair is a tangled halo around her head, her face buried in the pillow.
She's going to be more sore than ever after that second, unintended, round, and I know I need to head it off before it starts getting too bad for her.
I need to clean her up again. And this time, I need to resist my base urges to take her again.
Something I've never had an issue with before.
I walk to the bathroom without a word, but this time, I head for the soaker tub along the side.
I turn the water on and test the temperature before plugging the drain.
There's a set of bath stuff provided in case any "clients" want to take their activities in there.
I dig through and find a ball of some sort.
It's chalky and smells of coconut. Good enough.
I drop it in the water and watch it fizz for a moment as it slowly turns the water a deep, ocean blue.
When I return to the bed, she hasn't moved. She's exactly as I left her, leaving me with a jolt of satisfaction that she didn't attempt to hide herself from me this time. I can see the faint tremors that still run through her, the aftermath of a truly intense release.
"Erica," I say, my voice a low murmur.
She doesn't move.
"Come on," I say, gently patting her hip. "Let's get you cleaned up."
She lets out a soft, whimpering sound, a protest against the idea of moving.
I chuckle, a low, amused sound. "Come on. You'll feel better in a hot bath."
I wait for her to move, to sit up, but she just lies there, a limp, unresponsive weight.
"Erica," I say again, inserting a firm warning in my tone.
That gets her attention. A shudder runs through her body, and she slowly, reluctantly, pushes herself up. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, her movements slow, stiff.
She doesn't look at me. She keeps her gaze fixed on the floor, her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red. She's shy, embarrassed. And maybe a little scared of what comes next.
I hold out my hand. She hesitates for a beat, then places her hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, her grip weak.
I pull her to her feet, and she sways, her legs unsteady. I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her against me, supporting her weight.
"Easy," I say, my lips brushing against her hair. "I've got you."
She doesn't object when I swing her into my arms, just leans against me, her body warm and pliant.
The bathroom is steamy, the scent of coconut filling the air. The tub is almost full, the water a deep, inviting blue. I gently lower her into the water, her body sinking into the heat with a soft sigh.
She leans her head back against the rim of the tub, her eyes closed as her body relaxes.
I step back into the room and pick up the phone. Quickly, I order food to be brought up and place another order for the morning.
When I return to the bathroom, the steam is thicker. She hasn't moved, just lies there, a pale, beautiful figure in the blue water. Her blonde hair is slicked back from her face, her skin flushed and pink from the heat and the sex. Her expression one of pure, unadulterated bliss.
I ease her forward, and she complies wordlessly, before stepping into the tub behind her. The hot water is a shock to my system. If it were me, it wouldn't be this hot. But women love boiling for some reason.
I ignore it and just settle in behind her, my legs on either side of her, and pull her back against my chest.
Her body is soft, warm, a perfect fit against mine. The water laps around us, a gentle, soothing rhythm.
My hands move to her shoulders, my thumbs working into the tight muscles. She tenses for a moment, a flinch of instinctual resistance.
"Relax," I murmur against her ear.
Then, with a shuddering breath, she yields, her body going limp in my arms.
I work my thumbs in slow, firm circles, easing the tension from her muscles. My hands slide down her arms, over the soft skin, the fine bones. I'm not just massaging her; I'm exploring her, learning her.
My hands move to her stomach, flat and soft, and I rest them there, just feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath. I can feel the frantic flutter of her pulse, a rapid, bird-like beat against my palm.
She's still nervous. Still uncertain.
My hands move lower, skimming over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Her breath hitches, her body tensing again. I can feel the tremor that runs through her.
My fingers find the hot, tender flesh between her legs. She flinches, a small, sharp intake of breath.
"Easy," I say again. "Just cleaning you up."
My touch is gentle, almost clinical. I wash away the evidence of our second encounter, my fingers moving with a slow, deliberate care. I'm not trying to arouse her. I'm taking care of her. And that's a new, unfamiliar, and frankly, unsettling feeling.
Once satisfied she's clean, I grab a bar of soap and lather it up in my hands. The scent is clean, crisp. I start with her back, my hands moving in slow, sweeping strokes. Her skin is smooth, soft, a pleasure to touch.
I soap her arms, her shoulders, her neck. I'm methodical, thorough. I'm worshipping her body with my touch, a silent apology for the roughness, for the possession.
My hands move around to her front, skimming over her breasts. The nipples pucker instantly, a hard, tight pebble against my palm. Her breath catches, a soft, needy sound.
I ignore it, my hands moving down her stomach, her hips, her legs.
I wash every inch of her, from the tips of her toes to the curve of her shoulders.
"You're quiet," I say, my voice a low murmur against her ear.
She shrugs, a small, helpless movement. "I don't know what to say."
Quickly, I wash myself, not bothering with the same care I took with her.
"Say what you're thinking," I say.
"I'm thinking I'm in a bathtub with a man who bought my virginity," she says, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "What is there to think?"
The bluntness of her words is a splash of cold water. She's not wrong, but I don't like the reminder of the transaction that brought us here.
But it has to be addressed.
"You're upset, but I'm not the one who put you in this situation. You would be right here in this room anyway. With another man who could have been cruel, or worse."
I don't like the thought of that. Not in the slightest.
She's quiet for a long moment. "And you're not cruel?" she asks, her voice a whisper.
"I am. But not in the way you're implying. There's a difference between cruelty and control." I ease her away a bit. "I'm going to help you stand."
"I can do it on my own," she snaps.
I ignore her protest. I get to my feet, the water and soap streaming off my body. Then I reach down and wrap an arm around her waist, and pull her to her feet.
She's still unsteady, maybe even more now. I tighten my arm around her waist and hold her against me.
I turn the water back on and reach for the handheld shower head with my free hand. I rinse the soap from her body, my movements slow, deliberate. The warm water cascades over her, rinsing away the suds, the scent of coconut.
Her body is limp against mine, her head resting on my chest. She's exhausted. Drained.
When we're both clean, I turn the water off and grab a large, fluffy towel. I wrap it around her, a soft, white cloud that immediately soaks up the moisture. I gently rub her dry, my hands moving over her body with a possessive tenderness.
It would surprise anyone else to see me like this, but the truth is, she's not wrong in her assessment of me.
I can be cruel, but that cruelty comes with responsibility. Aftercare is paramount. I'm responsible for her physical and mental well-being after a night like tonight. Especially considering the fact that it's not only her first time being with someone as dominant as me, but her first time at all.
I leave her standing on her own for just a second while I wrap another towel hastily around her waist. Taking her weight again, I lead her out of the steamy bathroom and back into the suite.
A cart parked next to a table draws her eye. On it are covered plates, a carafe of water, two bottles of coconut water, and some glasses.
"You need to eat," I say, guiding her toward the table.
"I'm not hungry," she says, her voice a tired, mumbled protest.
"I didn't ask. You need to eat." I lead her to the couch instead of the dining table and let her slump into it. "The kitchen staff didn't know what you'd like, so they sent up a variety. We'll figure out what you want after I put lotion on you."
Her head snaps up. "On me?"
"Unless you want to be incredibly sore tomorrow, yes." I head into the bathroom again and find a bottle of lotion on the counter. When I return, she hasn't moved. Just staring at the cart of food like it's going to bite her.
I sit on the couch next to her and take her leg, draping it over my lap. I squeeze some lotion onto my palm and warm it between my hands before starting at her ankle. I work my way up her calf, my touch firm and methodical. Her skin is soft, smooth, a pleasure to touch.
She tenses for a moment, a flinch of instinctual resistance, then she forces herself to relax, her body melting under my touch.
"Thank you," she whispers, the words so faint I almost miss them.
"For what?" I ask, my thumbs working into the tight muscle of her calf.
"For... this," she says, her gaze fixed on my hands.
I feel a tightness in my chest at her small voice. Instead of responding to her words, I just say, "Tell me if it hurts anywhere or if you're more sore anywhere more than the rest." I need to be clinical to push away the unfamiliar feeling in my chest.
"I'm sore... everywhere," she admits. "My thighs are the worst. And where you... spanked me." The last two words come out in a whisper.