Dream of Me/Believe in Me

of his relentless passion.
    “It's all right,” he said gruffly. “You'll feel better when you're clean.”
    Encouraged when she didn't object, he removed her cloak, then gently, carefully did the same with the rest of her clothes. He was surprised to see the tear across the top of her gown, having been completely unaware of doing that. It hinted to him of the force that consumed him when he took her and he resolved, yet again, to hold it in strict check.
    By the time she was naked, the sauna was well warmed. Or so he thought it. Cymbra took a breath, testing the air cautiously, and said, “It's very hot.”
    Sweat had begun to form on her lovely breasts. He ran a hand along her smooth, slick arm. “Are you uncomfortable?”
    “No …” Her voice trailed off. She couldn't seem to do anything except look at him. He turned away to throw a ladle of water on the stones and she followed the movement of his big, perfectly honed body.
    Her eyes, drifting over him, might have been her hands, so vividly aware was she of hard muscles bunching beneath smooth, warm skin. Steam hissed up suddenly
    “That's why we call it sauna.” He drew her over to a bench, where he sat down and stretched out his long legs. “It's wet heat, not dry, better for the bones.”
    Beside him, Cymbra nodded. The dark, moist warmth of the chamber half-buried in the earth seemed to be seeping into her. The world beyond might have been as far away as the stars she could just glimpse glittering through the hole at the top of the roof. She took another breath, letting the scent of pine fill her, and felt her senses spin.
    “Lie down,” Wolf said. She heard him as though from a distance, yet she obeyed. He positioned her facedown on the bench, her head turned so that she could see the glow of the fire. She heard the faint sound of a vial being opened and a moment later smelled a tantalizing scent she couldn't identify.
    “Patchouli,” he said, “from the East.”
    A sigh of pure delight escaped her as his hands, slick with the perfumed oil, moved over her shoulders, down to the curve of her waist, and back up again. Slowly, methodically, he massaged away the tension and fatigue of the long day, the days of worry that had preceded it, and the largely sleepless nights.
    With more oil in his palms, he went farther, lingering over the high, firm curve of her buttocks and along each slender, shapely leg. His fingers just grazed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, making her squirm deliciously Little whimpers broke from her, becoming outright moans when he dug his thumbs into the balls of her feet and flexed each toe separately.
    Having attended ever so thoroughly to one side of her, he turned her over and smiled into her smoky gaze. “Feeling better?”
    “Hmm. Do I get a turn?” The thought of running her oiled hands over every inch of his body made the sensation of liquid heat pooling within her even more intense.
    “Maybe later.” She watched, enthralled, as he poured more oil into his palms, rubbed them together to spread it evenly, then settled his hands on the curve of her waist. “Have I told you lately how exquisitely beautiful you are?”
    She shook her head. “No, not since that night you and Dragon got drunk, but—”
    “We weren't drunk. We were just a little …” He paused, looking for the right word.
    “Sotted?” she offered helpfully. When that didn't seem to do, she tried again. “Grogged … scrooched … guzzled … toss-cupped?”
    His laugh was rich and deep. “All right, we were drunk. It doesn't take that to get me to tell you that you're beautiful.”
    “There was a time when I was very, very tired of being thought beautiful….” Her voice trailed off as he ran his hands up to cup her breasts, his slick thumbs rubbing over her erect nipples. A little moan caught in her throat. Helplessly, she felt her hips rise.
    “Why did you feel that way?” he asked, continuing his ministrations.
    “It … it just made things … Wolf,
please
—”
    “Things how?”
    “More complicated.
Please!”
    His teeth gleamed in the firelight. “Don't you know I always want to please you, Cymbra? Can't you feel that when I'm deep inside you? How I hold back, waiting for you? How I stroke deeper and deeper, touching you where you're most sensitive and—”
    She writhed on the bench, caught by the dark, smoky sensation of his words and touch, turning to fire beneath his hands. Helpless.
    And not helpless. She stroked his