Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I finish smoothing down the hard edges and study my work. Now instead of all splintered, it’s smooth and a little sad-looking. “Did you say the healer could fix this for you?”
“She cannot fix it, but she can encourage it to re-grow,” he tells me as I hand him the stone. “I will not be like Raahosh forever. Does it bother you?”
I think of Raahosh, his face scarred and his horns broken and twisted. He’s not the most attractive alien. Would I still be in love with Pashov if he was as frightening-looking as the fierce Raahosh? I study him and decide that I would. It’s not the broken horn that turns me off, it’s what it represents. It reminds me that I nearly lost him, and I hate the sight of it. “It’s fine. How long will it take to grow back?”
He shrugs. “When Pacy is grown, it should return to its full size.”
Oh my goodness. That long?
I must show my surprise, because he gets to his feet and pats my shoulder. “I am sorry.”
Why is he sorry? It’s not his fault. I was the one who sent him back into the storage cave to get spices that day. If his injury is anyone’s fault, it’s mine. “Don’t apologize.”
He smiles crookedly at me. “I do not want you to have a mate that is unpleasant to look at.”
I’m shocked at this. Why would he think that?
I stare at him as he dusts the fine grains of ground-up horn off his shoulders. Then again, why wouldn’t he think that? The few times he’s touched me, I’ve cried. I’ve given him nothing to indicate that I’m attracted to him, and he doesn’t remember our past together. And the horns…maybe those are a pride thing with sa-khui men. I never thought about it before, but everyone always talks about Raahosh’s horns like they’re shockingly terrible. Maybe because I don’t have horns, I’ve never thought about it.
But I’m thinking about it now.
Pashov finishes shaking himself off and strips down to his loincloth. Once his leather leggings are off, he tosses them aside and then reaches for the washcloth I’ve left drying by the fire. He dunks it in the water and begins to scrub at his bare chest, all vigorous movements and determination.
I suddenly realize that I’ve been going about this all wrong.
I’ve been pushing my mate away and treating him like he’s a stranger. He’s the same person. He’s the same sweet, funny, flirty man I fell in love with. He’s just missing a patch of his memory. And yet I’m acting like he’s someone completely new, a stranger wearing my lover’s face.
It’s the same person.
And I’m an idiot because my actions have been pushing us further apart when I should have been working to pull us together.
“Here,” I say. “Let me help.” And I step forward and take the cloth from his hand.
Pashov looks surprised, and then delighted. His simple pleasure breaks my heart and makes me want to do more. I want to have that silly look of joy on his face all the time. To think that such a small thing—washing his chest for him—can make him so happy.
I can do a lot more than just wash his chest to bring him pleasure.
I take the berries from his hand and squeeze them over the water, making my movements slow and sensual because I know he’s watching me. I make sure to lean over, thrusting my ass out as I do so, and dip the cloth into the pouch. When it’s wet and sudsy, I straighten and turn back around to him.
He’s watching me with eyes that burn like coals, and I know I’ve got his full attention. My skin prickles with awareness, and I gently drag the wet cloth over his chest. “Do you remember the times I used to do this for you?”
I watch as his throat works, and he swallows hard. “No.”
I nod, because I expected that. It’s all right that he doesn’t remember. We can make new memories. I’m suddenly excited at the thought of teasing my mate. This is all new for him. For Pashov, this is the first time his mate has given him a sexy bath. He doesn’t remember all of the playful things we used to do together, and he sure doesn’t remember his first blow job. I shiver, because this is going to be fun. So fun.
But I’ll start out slow. “Is there any part of you that is particularly dirty?” I ask, my voice all innocence.
He watches me hotly for a moment, and realizes I’m waiting for an answer. “Dirty?” he echoes.
“Anything in particular you’d like for me to clean?”
That scorching look flares in his eyes again. He thrusts out an arm.
Not the answer I was expecting, but a good place to start. I smile as I rub the soapy cloth up and down his muscular arm. I’ve missed touching him. The feel of his skin against mine is wonderful, and he’s warm and sweaty-smoky-smelling, but I don’t mind that at all. I love the scent of him almost as much as I love touching him.