Lord of Fire and Ice by Connie Mason with Mia Marlowe

not stopping when he reached the crevice of her bottom. She stiffened, so he covered her buttocks with the towel. He massaged her through it, lifting and spreading, teasing her tender flesh.
    “Oh.” The sigh was so soft he almost missed it.
    “Is something wrong?” he asked with a grin.
    “No, you’re just terribly slow.” A serrated edge of irritation crept into her tone. He hoped it meant she was fighting growing arousal.
    “Not slow. Thorough.” He knelt to dry the backs of her thighs and the sensitive crevices behind her knees. His grip tightened on one of her calves. Her skin was warm, almost feverish. Then he loosened his grip and moved his hand, drifting up to her buttocks and back down.
    Her skin rippled with gooseflesh, and he knew his touch sent pleasure dancing over her.
    “I don’t think this is a very good idea.” She turned and snatched at the towel.
    “Why?” He whipped the cloth behind his back, out of her reach. “Haven’t I obeyed your every command? Nothing will pass between us you don’t wish.”
    Her brows drew together, and he wished he could kiss away those lines between them.
    “I don’t trust you.”
    “You should,” he said simply. “I gave you my word.”
    He stood and looked down at her, every fiber of his body straining toward her. It was more than animal attraction, though there was plenty of that. Even though she’d enslaved him, he admired this woman who shouldered the responsibility for so many. Plenty of men would have failed where she’d succeeded.
    And yet, there was a fragility beneath her outward toughness. She was careful to keep it hidden, but he’d heard vulnerability in that sigh. Here was a woman worthy of more than his lust. She deserved his protection.
    Whether she wanted it or not.
    But first, he had to win her trust.
    “I won’t lie to you. I want you,” Brandr said. His cock throbbed at her nearness, but he fought the urge to pull her closer. “Believe me, I want you very badly, but I won’t force you.”
    She swallowed hard.
    “I wear your iron collar. My purpose is to serve you,” he said. “Let me.”
    ***
    Brandr stood stock still. His chest didn’t even rise and fall to show he breathed. His eyes darkened as he looked down at her.
    Then, though his lips barely moved, she heard one word.
    “Please.”
    Katla drew a sharp breath. It was rare enough for a man to use that word with another man. It dented a body’s pride to plead, and Brandr was intensely prideful. After all, he was arrogant enough to turn her upside down to kiss her foot. She knew it cost him something to say “please.” For that slice of a moment, she realized how badly he wanted to continue touching her, even if it was only as her body slave.
    A muscle ticked in his cheek. He was struggling to control himself.
    Why should she mind if he continued to towel her off? Hadn’t she accepted him as thrall with the express purpose of debasing him in mind? What was lower than a bath slave?
    Except this didn’t seem like the sullen service of a thrall. His touch was deft, sure. A lover’s touch. When he asked to serve her, his voice was rumbling and masculine, imbued with simmering arousal, not the resigned tone of a slave who serves because he must.
    Brandr made her ache. He wakened longings no mistress should feel for a servant. Yet, she was still in control. As he said, nothing would happen she didn’t want.
    “All right. You may continue.”
    He exhaled, and Katla almost recalled her words. This meant something to him.
    And, she realized with uneasiness, to her.
    He fetched a fresh cloth and started by raising the towel to her face, gently pressing the cloth to her forehead, her temples, her closed eyelids and cheeks. His touch was feather light, as if he were trying to imprint the memory of her features on his fingertips.
    The fresh cloth smelled of a snow-washed mountain breeze along with his sharp masculine scent. The towel moved down, patting her neck dry, tracing the