Page 63 of Iron Roses
“Do you like it?”
Her voice is Elaria’s.
But the cadence—the echo—it’s hers.
Giovanna.
My chest tightens. My stomach knots.
Then her teeth graze the shell of my ear—just a bite, light but electric.
Water ripples around me.
I clench the edge of the tub, knuckles pale.
This is wrong. This is right.
I see Elaria when I open my eyes, but beneath my skin—my body remembers her. The way she used to hum under her breath when she washed my hair. The way she kissed the back of my neck after every war I returned from.
I grip the marble harder. But her hands are already slipping down, soap lather trailing.
I should stop her.
Her lips hover, warm against my skin, breath ghosting the side of my neck.
“Do you want me?” she whispers.
My grip on the tub slips for a fraction of a second.
There’s no room for lies. Not with her hand drifting down the side of my throat. Not with my body already answering, stiff and swollen beneath the water, the ache pressing hard against the inside of my thigh.
I nod.
Her fingers curl under my chin, guiding my face to hers.
My gaze follows her as she steps in front of me.
Her fingers slip beneath the hem of her sweater. She pulls it up, the fabric peeling away from her skin, revealing inches at a time—the soft slope of her waist, the curve of her ribs, the line of her navel.
The sweater falls behind her in a whisper.
She stands in nothing.
Her birthmark—faint, crescent-shaped—rests at the base of her neck. My eyes linger there.
Then lower.
Her breasts rise with each breath, soft and flushed. My gaze travels down—hips gentle and curved, thighs tense, a shadow between them that pulls at something primal in my gut.
She steps forward each movement unhurried, unafraid.
I drink in every inch.
The scar on her wrist.
The soft indentation at her waist.
The perfect swell of her ass as she turns, just enough to watch my reaction. Her foot slides into the water. Then the other. She descends into the bath with grace, the water rising around her, cupping her like a second skin.
