Succubus Dreams Page 0,70

I'd been wearing his ring on. He pulled the ring out and ran his fingertips over the dolphin.

"Around your neck, huh? What is this, high school?"

"Might as well be," I said, "seeing as how we haven't even made it to second base yet."

He smiled and released the ring, moving his fingers up to my cheek. "Yes, we have." He sighed. "We sure do seem to be fighting a lot lately, huh?"

"Yeah." I settled back into the couch's softness. "It's not even about sex anymore."

"I noticed that. It's boring stuff, actually."

"Boring?"

He shrugged. "You know. Typical relationship stuff. Spending time with each other. Trust. Communication. Love isn't always about grand forces of the universe keeping us apart."

Unless, I thought, you considered the difference in length between a mortal life and an immortal one. I didn't know why Seth's lifespan was bothering me lately. I'd understood the complications on an intellectual level when we'd first started dating, but I hadn't really had such visceral reactions until recently. Him getting shot hadn't helped, I supposed. And speaking of which...

"I never thanked you," I told him.

"For what?"

"For risking your life for mine."

"But you can't di - "

"Yeah, yeah. We've already established that, like, a hundred times. And the wisdom - or lack thereof - of your actions aside, it was sweet and brave and...and, well, thank you."

Seth moved his hand over mine and squeezed it. "There's nothing to thank me for."

I stood up. "Well, now that we've got the sentimental stuff out of the way, let's get down to business. Take off your clothes."

Seth started. "Wai - what?"

"Well," I amended, "except for your boxers."

"Are we going to second base after all?"

"Just do it."

While he stripped, I gathered some things from his kitchen, as well as from a tote bag I'd brought. When I returned to the living room, he was sitting in the center of the couch in boxers only. They were soft gray flannel. Adorable.

I sat down on the floor in front of him, moving a bowl of warm water beside me. After dipping a washcloth into the water, I slowly began rubbing it over his feet.

Seth was quiet for several moments. Then: "You getting Biblical on me? Didn't somebody wash Jesus' feet?"

I rewet the cloth and began moving up one of his legs. "Don't worry," I told him. "I don't expect you to turn this water into wine. At least not until I'm done." I moved the washcloth over Seth's calf. It was leanly muscled, covered in tawny brown hair. "The foot washing tradition is bigger than the Bible. You find it everywhere, long before New Testament times, in lots of other cultures. Kings. Generals. They all got this treatment."

"You wash a lot of kings' and generals' feet?" he teased.

"Yeah, actually."

"Oh. Well. I don't think I'm really in that league."

I smiled and moved on to the other calf. "Not true. Poets and bards used to have as much prestige as kings. Lots of them got this too."

"I miss the good old days. Now we're lucky if we get paid."

I washed his thigh, careful to avoid the bandaged wound. "Yeah, true. But people also don't threaten to behead you if they don't like what you wrote."

"You obviously haven't read some of my reviews."

"I only read the good ones."

I finished both legs and dropped the washcloth into the water. I scooted the bowl away. Seth started to get up, but I shooed him back down.

"Nope. Not finished." I reached for a bottle of massage oil I'd brought and poured some on my hands. It smelled like almonds. "That was just to get you clean."

With as much deliberation as I'd performed the washing, I massaged the oil into his skin, starting with his feet once again. Washing can be sensual, but rubbing someone with oil is doubly so. Triple, even. The light banter faded between us. Seth simply watched, wonder and arousal on his face as I worked my way up. And as I met his gaze, I saw more than just those feelings. The love in his eyes was so powerful, I needed to look away. Seth had an amazing grasp of the English language, but there were days when that skill was nothing compared to what he told me in his looks.

When I finished his legs, I climbed up behind him on the couch and worked on his back and chest too. I'd been giving massages almost as long as I'd been dancing. I knew exactly what to do, knew where all the muscle