“Bring something to wash with, lover,” she said.
“Sure.” He walked to the shelves. “There’s all flavors. More like cocktails than soaps. Mango and black currant. Kiwi and peppermint. Passion fruit and mandarin. Ylang-ylang and marjoram. Contents of a herbalist.”
“Anything,” she said, watching Ryan as he stood on the far side of the bathroom. Krysty felt a surge of love for the tall, lean figure, seeing again the countless scars that seamed his body, puckering the flesh across his chest and the small of his back. Knife and bullet. Once, in the early days of their relationship, Krysty had asked Ryan to tell her how he’d received all the wounds.
He’d shrugged. “Not enough time, and most of them I don’t recall,” had been his reply. “Things way past, not worth the forgetting.”
His curly black hair was flattened by the damp atmosphere, and she was struck by a sudden resemblance between Ryan and his absent son, Dean.
Ryan’s right eye, a chillingly pale blue, stared at her. “Like what you see?” he said quietly.
“Always have done,” she replied. “Now I’d like to feel it, as well.”
“First we wash. Then”
SOMEHOW THE WASHING TURNED FLUIDLY and effortlessly into lovemaking.
The bath was so big that they could both stretch out in it, taking turns soaping each other, rubbing the warm oils into responsive flesh, luxuriating in the rare pleasure.
Krysty waited until Ryan was half lying, half sitting, then moved to straddle him, lowering herself on top. She reached with cupped fingers to take his strength and guide it inside her, moaning softly at the sensation.
“Good” she sighed.
“Yeah” Ryan lowered his head to kiss her on the side of her throat, tasting the delicate oils, touching the tip of his tongue to Krysty’s ear. He reached out and clasped her face between his strong hands, brushing his lips against hers, closing his eye as she responded, her tongue probing between his parted lips.
Now she was rising and falling, sending small waves lapping across the bubble-filled bath.
Once he nearly slipped out as the pace grew faster, feeling himself sliding with the smooth oils, but she felt the danger and responded in time, trapping him safely deep inside her. “Close one, lover,” she panted.
“Your fault.”
“How’s that?” she asked in mock outrage.
“You keep giving two ups to my one down.”
They had made love so often that they could sense each other’s responses. Ryan knew that Krysty’s breathing suddenly slowed as she began to concentrate on the speeding orgasm, and he became quieter, focusing on their joint needs.
The rush was as good as ever, leaving them both drained, clinging to each other, nuzzling while their pulses returned to normal.
“Nice,” she whispered.
“Better than nice.”
“How much better?”
He held his hands wide apart. “Least that much.”
“Not that much?” She held her hands wider.
“Mebbe.”
She reached under the floral-scented water and touched him, grinning at the instant response, holding her left hand in front of his face, finger and thumb a scant inch apart. “Feels like only that much, lover,” she teased.
“Yeah, but I’m a growing boy.”
THE PILED TOWELS had once been thick and fluffy, but time had taken its toll and what remained was thin and delicate, like antique lace, liable to disintegrate in your hands.
But there were enough of them to get Ryan and Krysty dry.
The washing machines did a fine job on their clothes, though Ryan contented himself with wiping the worst smears off his beloved coat.
In less than an hour both they and their garments were clean and crisp.
“All we got to do now is get some sleep,” Ryan said, ducking his head to drink some cold water from the palms of his hands.
“And mebbe make some more love,” she responded.
“No,” Ryan said.
“Yes,” Krysty stated, and eventually got her way.
Chapter Seven
Jak woke them next morning, knocking on the door. “Hungry. Go look food?”
Ryan squinted at his wrist chron. “Only six, Jak. Kind of early.”
“Real hungry. Haven’t eaten for whole day or more. Others are awake.”
Ryan sat up. “All right, all right. Just give us a couple of minutes.”