Page 47 of Tangled Decadence

She doesn’t.

Once I’m naked, I slip into the opposite side of the tub. Her eyes stay glued to my erection until it disappears under the bubbles.

“Did you need any more proof that you’re not hideous?” I tease.

She blushes and looks away from me. “It doesn’t take much for a man to get hard,” she mumbles.

“I’m not like other men.”

She pretends to be fascinated by the bubbles just to avoid looking at me. “That’s what all men say.”

“If you’re uncomfortable?—”

“I’m not.” Her eyes move hesitantly to mine. “I should be. That’s the problem.”

She still wants me. After everything she knows, after everything she’s seen… she still fucking wants me.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“But I do,” she whispers in a mournful croak. “I should want to be as far away from you as possible. I should hate you.”

“But you don’t?”

She glares at me accusingly. “You know I don’t.”

“Then what do you want?” With every second that ticks by, I move a little closer, determined to bridge the gap between us.

“I don’t know. That’s the other problem.”

I shake my head. “I think you do. I think you knew what you wanted the other night when you found me in the nursery.”

She swallows. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Because you didn’t. I figured you didn’t want to be seen. But then I heard you cry out in the next room…”

She flushes and I know that my initial suspicion is dead on. Excitement pools in my chest as I run my hands against her calves. She looks transfixed, as though she can’t take her eyes off me.

“It was a… a bad dream…”

“Was it really?”

Her eyes flutter hypnotically. “Y-yes. Just a dream.”

“You were sweating. Your breathing was heavy. And when you opened your eyes, you looked wide awake.”

“Some dreams can do that to you,” she insists.

I run my hands up and down her thighs, getting closer and closer to her center. I wish the scent of citrus and lavender weren’t so overpowering—I want to be able to smell her. The scent of her dripping pussy, the saltiness of pleasure as it evaporates off her body.

“Okay then. What were you dreaming about?”

“Dmitri…”

“Tell me, moya devushka.”

Her chin falls to her chest, like speaking to the water instead of to me makes it easier to voice the words. “I was dreaming about you.”

“What was I doing in the dream?”