I smiled to myself, swimming toward the stone steps that led out of our private lagoon to the lounge. When I was close enough that the water was about waist-deep, I stood up.
Kristoff, dabbing off the last smidgen of mud, froze. I arched my back a little, thrusting my bare breasts forward.
“It’s too bad you can’t find a little time to relax,” I said, caressing my breasts with the chalky white mud, allowing it to slide slowly down my chest, trailing my fingers down after it with long, sweeping strokes.
His eyes glittered with blue fire as he watched me.
“According to the spa brochure, this water is supposed to do all sorts of good things for you,” I cooed, scooping up two handfuls, pouring them over my now white breasts. “They have all sorts of treatment and massages available in the water, for a variety of ailments.”
His eyes widened, but he didn’t otherwise move.
I bent and got another handful of mud, slowly walking forward toward the stairs until the water was at my pubic bone. I slathered my belly with the mud, making little swirls and circles in it as I spread it lower.
I thought Kristoff’s eyes were going to bug right out of his head.
I dipped my fingers even lower. “But if you don’t want to experience the benefits and pleasures it is sure to give you, I’ll just have to enjoy it all by myself.”
A splash momentarily blinded me, water flying everywhere. I laughed when Kristoff, still fully clothed, stood before me with two handfuls of white mud.
“It would be a shame to miss such a natural phenomenon,” he agreed, his voice husky as he spread the mud on my breasts.
“You still have your clothes on,” I pointed out, then gasped as his head dipped and he took the tip of one breast into his mouth. “Oh, dear God. Kristoff!”
The last was in response to his hands, which had gone beneath the water and were busy with hidden parts of me. My knees threatened to buckle as his fingers danced along sensitive flesh.
You taste salty, he said, his mouth moving along my breastbone. I could swear his tongue was made of fire as it swirled and lapped.
It’s the water. It’s two-thirds seawater and one-third fresh. I read that in the brochure. . . . Boo!
He smiled into my neck as two fingers suddenly dipped inside me. Hundreds of normally dormant nerve endings suddenly sat up and took notice of him, tingling with delight at his touch.
You have too many clothes on. I whimpered, trying to get my hands to strip the wet clothes off him, but my body was too involved in the sensations his mouth and hands were generating for me to do much but stand and quiver with rapture.
Yes. I have clothing on, and you do not. It’s very wicked, is it not?
Definitely, but it also is keeping me from touching you, I said, groaning as a third finger joined the other two, his thumb making little swirls that almost had me sobbing. My brain didn’t know whether it should focus on the wonderful feeling his fingers were generating, the sensation of my breasts rubbing against the slightly abrasive wet cloth of his shirt, or the fire that his mouth was trailing as he kissed a wet path along my shoulder.
Perhaps I do not wish to be touched, he answered, his teeth nipping the flesh of my upper arm.
I let him see a mental picture of what exactly I wanted to do to him. He froze for a moment, then in a move that was literally too fast for me to see, he stripped off all his clothing, the dull thud of his shoes hitting the stone floor of the lounge the last thing I heard before he was back in my arms, his body, wet and warm and hard as the lava rocks around us, holding my entire attention.
Where were we? he said, then smiled into my mind. Here, I think . . .
I squealed as his fingers resumed their previous activity. “Two can play at that, mister.”
I had a handful of mud ready, and slid it down his chest and stomach, gently biting his shoulder as I let my hands go even lower, down to his erection. “Now, see? I knew this would benefit you. Sparky is all happy.”
“Sparky?” he asked, nipping my earlobe. “I can live with a pet name for me, but I draw the line at naming body parts.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, taking him in both hands, gently exploring the territory. “So you wouldn’t approve of my calling your penis ‘Raging Stallion’?”
His eyes crossed for a moment as I discovered a particularly sensitive spot. “Raging Stallion works for me,” he said with a gasp.
“I thought so. Now, why don’t you go sit over there on that bottom step, and I think we’ll be far enough out of the water so I won’t drown while I perform a therapeutic genital massage.”