The Sorceress of Belmair. Bertrice Small
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reaching her, smiled down into her eyes. “I want to hear you call me by name, Cinnia.”
“You are the most arrogant man I have ever met, Dillon,” she answered.
He grinned again. “I probably am,” he agreed. “The result of my exalted pedigree, my queen. Now, let us bathe each other.”
The bathing chamber consisted of several small rooms. In the first two indentations in the shape of shells had been imprinted into the marble floor. A gold spigot, fashioned like an openmouthed fish, sprang from the wall bordering each of these recesses in the floor. Faintly scented lukewarm water poured from them. Next to each shelf was a small table upon which rested a large sea sponge and a round, flat dish of thickened soft soap bearing the same fragrance as the water.
She found herself quickly over her shyness regarding their nudity. She stole a quick look at his maleness. She was hardly familiar with the masculine body, but she doubted his manhood would be called insufficient by any standards. And if she was to admit it to herself he had indeed given her pleasure in the joining. It was that that most disturbed her. They were barely acquainted and she had enjoyed it. What did that say about her? Belmairans did not have the easy morals of Hetarians. Cinnia stepped into the shell.
“Now it is your brow that furrows,” Dillon said to her, and he directed the spigot head to wet her body.
“Are you invading my thoughts?” she said sharply.
“You asked me not to, and so I am not,” Dillon answered her. “I would know what troubles you, Cinnia. Can you put it into easy words, or would you prefer I seek those words for myself, my queen?” He dipped the sponge into the soap, and began to lather it over her shoulders and back.
She was silent a long minute, and then she said, “I liked what happened between us in the joining, Dillon. But what kind of a woman does that make me?”
“A passionate one, for which I am delighted,” he told her quietly.
“I reacted like an easy Hetarian woman. They were always different that way than we were. Swift to indulge their senses without a care for anyone or anything else,” Cinnia told him unhappily. “I didn’t know you, and yet I enjoyed the passions we shared in the joining. Nay, I reveled in it.”
“How many brides know the men with whom they are matched?” Dillon asked her. “It is rare in my world that women wed men they know well and love. Women in my world marry for many reasons, but love is rarely among them. Respect and love come afterward. Is it any different here in Belmair? And if a bridegroom is skilled and gentle, should his bride not gain pleasures with him? Why should her wedding night be one of fear and loathing, Cinnia? Why should she not have her passions stoked and brought to sweet fulfillment? Who would ever tell you such a terrible thing?” He swirled the sponge over her adorable buttocks, and squatted down to wash her thighs and shapely legs. Then he stood again and helped her to rinse the soap from her body.
When Cinnia turned to face him her pretty cheeks were pink. But Dillon tipped her small oval face up to his and tenderly kissed her lips. “No one told me anything,” she managed to whisper against his mouth. “Oh, I knew the basics of what must be between a man and a woman. Nidhug was emphatic that I learn such things. But we Belmairans are an old and honored race. Passion such as you engendered in me is unknown to us, Dillon.”
“Nay, it isn’t,” he told her. “It simply isn’t considered good manners in Belmair to discuss it, my queen. Enjoy it, aye! But discuss it? Nay! Would you like to do my back now?” Handing her the sponge he turned his back to her.
Taking the sponge from him, Cinnia rinsed it, and then dipping it into the soap she began to wash his broad back and shoulders. He was tall, and so it became necessary for her to stand upon her tiptoes. She laved the sponge across and down his body, and when she had finished she rinsed him as he had her, and Dillon turned about to face her.
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