Analisa sat in the tub, water barely covering the curve of her hips. Her body ached from the night before—thighs sore, pussy raw, nipples swollen and shiny with remnants of last night. Every mark, every bruise, every wet streak reminded her of what had happened.
Cassian knelt at the side of the tub, cleaning her body. His hands ran over her skin, washing her breasts with methodical strokes. There was no heat in his eyes, no spark—just deliberate, almost clinical motion, like he was tending to a body, not exploring it.
Analisa's frustration flared. She had wanted him to lose control, to tease her until she had to beg, letting her pride burn a little as she gave in. But he stayed calm, restrained. Her pride wouldn't let her ask outright, but she had hoped to be provoked into it.
Not him—she was the Superior Mother. Powerful men had trembled before her, fought, even died to touch her. She had never asked anyone for anything like this.
