look at the Chosen, he glanced over to the bathroom. Through the jambs, he
saw the marble shower and got a serious case of the Joneses.
«Would you care to wash, your grace?» Layla said. «Shall I run the water for you?»
He nodded to get her busy with something while he tried to figure out what to do with himself.
Take her. Fuck her. Have her twelve different ways.
Okay, yeah, that was not what he should be doing.
The shower came on and Layla came back, and before he knew what was doing, the blanket
came off his body. His hands shot up to cover himself, but her eyes got to his erection first.
«May I help you into the bath?» Her voice was husky, and she stared at his hips as if she
approved.
Which inflated that huge weight under his palms even more.
«Your grace?»
Just how was he supposed to sign in this condition?
Whatever. She wouldn't understand him anyway.
John shook his head, then sat up, keeping one hand on himself and planting the other on the
mattress for stability. Shit, he felt like a table whose screws had all been loosened, his constituent
parts not fitting together well anymore. And the trip into the bathroom seemed like an obstacle
course, even though there was nothing in his way.
At least he wasn't solely focused on Layla anymore.
Keeping himself cupped, he stood and wobbled into the bathroom, trying not to think about how
he was mooning Layla. While he went along, images of newborn foals played through his head,
particularly the ones where their spindly legs bent like wires as they struggled to keep off the
ground. He so got that. It seemed like at any moment his knees were going to take a vacation and
he was going to yard-sale like an idiot.
Right. He was in the bathroom. Good job.
Now if he could just keep from hitting the bald marble. Although, God, getting clean would be
worth the contusions. Except even the shower he wanted so badly was trouble. Stepping under
the warm, gentle spray was like getting lashed with a whip, and he jumped back-only to catch
Layla disrobing out of the corner of his eye.
Holy Christ… She was beautiful.
As she joined him he was speechless, and not because he had no voice box. Her breasts were
full, the rosy nipples tight in the midst of their lush weight. Her waist looked small enough for
him to circle it with his hands. Her hips were a perfect balance to her narrow shoulders. And her
sex… her sex was bare to his eyes, the skin smooth and hairless, the little slit made up of two
folds he was desperate to part.
He clamped both of his hands to himself, as if his cock were liable to leap right off his pelvic
girdle.
«May I wash you, your grace?» she said as steam swirled between them like fine cloth in a soft
breeze.
The arousal behind his hands jerked.
«Your grace?»
His head nodded. His body throbbed. He thought of Qhuinn talking about what he'd done with
the female he'd had. Oh, Jesus . . . And now it was happening to John.
She picked up the soap and massaged it between her palms, rolling the bar around and around,
suds foaming up white and dripping onto the tile. He imagined his cock in between her hands
and had to breathe through his mouth.
Look at her breasts sway, he thought as he licked his lips. He wondered if she'd let him kiss her
there. What would she taste like? Would she let him go between her-
His cock jumped, and he let out a plaintive moan.
Layla put the soap back in the little dish on the marble wall. «I'll be gentle, as you are sensitive
now.»
He swallowed hard and prayed he didn't lose control as her frothy hands came toward him and
settled on his shoulders. Unfortunately the anticipation was far more enjoyable than the reality.
Her light touch like sandpaper on a sunburn… and yet he craved the contact.
Craved her. With the smell of French-milled soap wafting up in the moist, hot air, her palms
traveled down his arms, then back up and over his now tremendous chest. Suds ran past his belly
and onto his hand, threading between his fingers before dripping off his sex in soft clumps.
He stared into her face as she lingered on his chest, finding it beyond erotic that her pale green
eyes roamed over his new, big body.
She was hungry, he thought. Hungry for what he was holding in his hands. Hungry for what he
wanted to give her.
She took the soap out of the dish again and knelt before him, knees on the marble. Her