“I heard you crying.” There was the barest touch of sternness in the minotaur’s voice now. “Please, let me help you.”
That please wasn’t for him, it was for her. He wasn’t begging to touch her, the way some weak men might do. He was asking her to submit to him, so he could alleviate her pain.
When he placed his hands on her chest, Tess couldn’t help but notice how perfectly her breasts seemed to fit into his palms. The ache was still there inside her, but Spike’s warmth softened it a little, and when he teased her nipples through the clinging wet fabric of her shift, a little moan of pleasure tumbled from her lips.
She remembered what the bisonman had told her last night in the cave. Where I come from, ma'am, a woman’s word is law, and when she says no, a man ought to reckon she means it.
If she asked him to stop, he would.
She didn’t ask him to stop.
His hands went beneath the water, to find the hem of her shift. When he started to peel the wet garment off her body, Tess lifted her arms to assist him. The cool, clean morning air suddenly felt wonderful against her bare skin.
Spike turned her, so she was facing toward the middle of the river. Then he drew her body against his, so her back was pressed to his front, and her bottom was nestled between his powerful, kneeling thighs. She could feel his male arousal straining against the front of his britches, hard and huge.
He wants me, Tess thought. Not in the way those men had wanted her, the auctioneer and the three bounty hunters. They had wanted her the way men wanted a glass of whiskey or a good hand of cards. Something to be used once and then discarded.
Not Spike. Not the bisonman. He wanted her the way an animal wants its mate. A deep, primal longing that surpasses all human understanding. He wanted to plant himself inside her, wanted to make babies inside her womb, offspring whom he would protect with his horns and his gun. Those thoughts made Tess squirm with excitement, as if a thousand tiny feathers were tickling her inside and out.
Spike slid his hands around her and cupped her breasts from behind. He began to massage her, gently at first, then a bit more firmly, gradually increasing the pressure until he was kneading her so strongly she could feel it deep within the inner tissue of her breasts. He worked his fingers from back to front, squeezing her taut nipples at the end of each stroke. Tess’s breasts still ached, but now it was a good ache, a needful ache, and she leaned back into him with a sigh as he continued to caress and massage her, slow and firm and deep.