Sacred Revelations by Harte Roxy Page A

possibly swallow it all, and so it flowed out of my mouth and onto my chin in a large splatter.
    I made him feel good. Why do I feel so shitty? I’m ashamed of what I did.
    He left me in bed alone while he went in to shower. I look at the mess we’ve made, his come a wet puddle of darkness on his turquoise-colored sheets, other splatters and streaks tell a sordid story. I roll them into a ball, hiding the evidence of what we’ve done, a tear hitting the sheets to form one more dark spot among so many.
    I will not cry over this. Not when I wanted to touch him.
    I pull the sheets completely from the bed, leaving them wadded on the floor, not knowing where to put them. I want the bed changed, all evidence of what happened gone, but as I rummage through drawers and closets, I find nothing more than clothing, his, no women’s clothing, and of his, it is a sparse closet, some summer shirts, slacks, a few pairs of dress shoes. I wonder where he hides his endless supply of leather, thinking that perhaps he has an underground lair, like Batman, the place where he keeps his kink clothing.
    “Find what you’re looking for?” he asks as I come out from the walk-in closet, scaring the shit out of me, so that I jump and “eek”, hiding my nakedness behind a shield of arms. He stands in the doorway of the bathroom, steam rolling from the warmer bathroom into the cooler bedroom. The heavy scent of cloying incense flows into the room not burnt but damp, warm, the fragrance of his shower gel perhaps. I don’t recognize the scent.
    “Sh-sheets,” I stammer, pointing at the pile on the floor.
    “For future reference, hallway closet,” he says sternly. “Right now, you shower.”
    I hurry to cross the room, thinking to lock myself and my embarrassment behind a closed door. Lord Fyre has other ideas and follows me into the bathroom. Taking me by the elbow, he helps me step into the shower. He’d left the water running and the temperature, though a little warm for my taste, is nice hitting my body. I reach for a bar of soap.
    “No. I’ll bathe you.”
    I freeze, my hand still outstretched to reach the bar of soap. Had I thought he was there to just watch?
    I don’t know, but the thought of him bathing me teeters me on the edge of freaking out.
    “I can…” I start to tell him I can do it myself, but am silenced by a small sea sponge shoved between my open lips. I know better than to spit it out.
    He rubs the small bar between his hands, creating lather, releasing the heavy fragrance I don’t recognize.
    It is exotic. The bath he gives me is erotic, rubbing my arms, my breasts, circling my small breasts and pinching the nipples into tight buds. “I like your breasts.”
    I grunt, hoping my disagreement comes through. Why do men keep telling me they like my breasts—first Garrett, now Lord Fyre. I know my breasts haven’t grown any, and they are almost non-breasts, they are so small. Lion always made fun of my breasts; even my father argued that it was a waste of money for bras. It wasn’t as if anyone would notice one way or another, after all.
    His soapy hands travel lower, rubbing, sliding, fitting between my legs, one hand in front, one hand behind, washing, massaging everything between them, but he doesn’t linger, at least not long enough for me to really enjoy myself, just enough to tease, moving on to lather my thighs, my calves, my feet, even between my toes.
    Standing, he pulls the sponge from between my lips. I look up at him and am astonished again by the raw, intense beauty of this man. His long damp hair clings against his solid-muscled shoulders and I force myself not to reach a hand up to brush a stray, damp lock of hair from his cheek. I don’t understand myself. I was mad at him for making me suck him but I wanted to do so. I wanted to taste him. I enjoyed tasting him. And now…I want to touch him again and I’m not so mad anymore.
    “How are you feeling?”
    “Fine?” I squeak, sounding like I’m