Already she was glad for the cool air chilling her fevered skin.
He discarded her boots, more neatly than she had done with his, taking the time to fold her dress and lay it on top of them so the dark material didn’t touch the floor.
The problem with rituals was that you had to go slowly, methodically. It would be so much easier to lose herself if Riley could speed things up. If this could have been wild, messy. She’d happily sacrifice the skin of her back for Clark to take her against the wall, if it meant she didn’t have to pretend tonight was purely professional for her. If she didn’t have to hide that she’d never wanted anyone more.
Despite Clark’s repeated claims that she loved risk, she really didn’t. Sure, she was impulsive, but that was different, action without thought. Risk was calculated. Riley had never been any good at the thinking part.
Clark, on the other hand, had never done anything without analyzing it to death first. That must be why he seemed so much more in control of himself tonight. Aside from a slight staccato increase in his breathing, it barely seemed to bother him at all, how slowly he rolled down her tights, having to work to stretch the silky material over her ass and the curves of her thighs before she could finally step out of them. Meanwhile, the anticipation was killing her. So when he said, “Looks like you wanted it to be nice too,” while running a finger under the lace band at the top of her prettiest pair of underwear, she trembled.
And when he pulled the elastic forward and let it snap back against her skin, she almost screamed.
“You’re supposed to be demonstrating your affection for me,” Riley hissed.
“I am,” he said innocently before sliding her underwear down.
Clark stood to slip one of her bra straps off her shoulder and then the other, testing the engineering of the balconette style that even on its best day functioned more as decoration for her breasts than support.
“This is me appreciating your efforts.”
He undid her bra in the back before hooking a single finger between her breasts and, pinning her with his gaze, tugging the whole thing off.
“You’ve got the easier part.” His voice was darker, deeper than the sky over the ocean outside.
She assumed he meant what she’d thought earlier, that surrendering yourself to serve someone was easier than the reverse, but then he finished.
“I have to wait ages before I get to touch you the way I want to.”
They made their way over to the tub, where Clark lowered himself in until he was submerged up to his sternum. Almost immediately, his golden skin took on a rosy blush. The bricks below had kept the water plenty hot.
He splashed his chest, brought his legs up so his feet hung off either end of the basin.
“Tell me again what this part symbolizes.”
Riley had seen his notes. She knew that he knew. Either he wanted to fill the heavy silence in the room, or he needed to remind them both why they were here.
“I’m attending you.” She poured a handful of his expensive orange pepper soap in her hands and rubbed down his arms. “To show I don’t hold myself superior.”
“Ahh yes.” He relaxed deeper into the steaming water, getting the hair at his nape damp as he reclined, grinning. “I remember now.”
In truth, it was no kind of hardship to learn the ridges and hollows of him. To get to trace his outline with soap-slick hands. This was different from the massage she’d given him, when all she wanted to prove was how much she didn’t care, didn’t want him. Now the dare was letting him see that she liked making him feel good. That doing so brought her pleasure, her eyes growing heavy-lidded, her tight nipples pressed against his back as she leaned over him.
She wasn’t being careful, in any sense of the word. Water trailed down her forearms and splashed her neck, so that even though she stayed outside the tub, her body still got damp, warm. Steam curled the hair at her temples, made her loose bun fall until she had to reach up and tug out the elastic, letting the blond strands float around her shoulders.
Riley allowed her hands to fall beneath his waist only briefly, enough to count but not to tease.
From the way he exhaled low and even as she kept moving down his legs, Clark must think she did it as an act of mercy.
She did, but not for him.
“The water’s still warm,” he said when she’d finished. “If you want to have a go, I’ll scrub your back.”
But that wasn’t how the ritual went, so she tossed him a robe from her bag—not a ceremonial one but fluffy and white, the kind you get at a spa—and pulled one out for herself. Ceilidh insisted Riley buy them when they went to a big-box store to get the salt.
No one’s getting shagged if you freeze your bits off.
Riley made a mental note to buy her something nice for being such a wise and good friend.
They sat on the edge of the mattress, and Riley unscrewed the jar of rowan she’d prepared. Clark would eat from her hand, a symbol of trust—since the raw berries were poisonous.
Dipping two fingers in the ruby glaze, she held them out to him. He could have easily licked it off, but with a hand around her wrist, Clark took both her fingers on his tongue and closed his mouth.
Riley made a noise, a telling noise, at the wet heat as he flicked across the sensitive pads of her fingertips. Clark just held her gaze, his full of promises, all of them obscene. After an indecent amount of time, she pulled her hand back.
It could have been done then. That was enough and all they’d outlined, but Riley didn’t want to stop. She reached for the jar again, using her ring finger this time to gather more of the sticky, sweet gloss and spread it across first her top then her bottom lip.
The second she finished, Clark surged forward to capture her mouth. Groaning like he’d been waiting for permission. Using his teeth like he remembered what she liked.
He kissed her and kissed her, greedy long after the tart flavor of the rowan left her lips.
When at last he did lean back, gasping, trying to catch his breath, his lips were stained. Hers must match. Placing one hand on the back of her neck, Clark ushered her onto her back, bracing on his arms over her.
They hadn’t practiced this next part. Her notebook simply said . . . and then we have sex.
Riley couldn’t find anything to suggest that a particular speed or position was required. It should work as long as he came inside her, as long as she let him.
He pushed her robe open all the way down her front before carefully drizzling a line of rowan glaze between her breasts, using his mouth to chase the slow drip all the way to her navel.
She arched into him—knowing that if she had brought him poison berries, at this point, he’d be sick.
Even when he’d caught every trace of the mixture, Clark kept kissing her. Hotter. Lower. Sliding his hands under her ass, spreading her legs so he could fit his shoulders between them.
“Let me,” he said against her inner thigh, and he could have meant anything.