Training Ivy [How The West Was Done 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) by Karen Mercury Page B

twitched amply, straining against the thin fabric of his tight drawers—a monumental, bulging appendage when compared to the few members she’d viewed in her time. She knew if she was bold enough to kiss him, the prick would spurt drops of tasty jism, and she enjoyed having that sort of sexual power over men.
    But she couldn’t kiss him. She was shaving him. And they were discussing inverted men, men who performed sodomy with each other. These ideas were stimulating her so intensely she actually felt weak in the knees.
    When she again rinsed the blade, he said, “I’ve dabbled in it now and again. It’s just a different manifestation of an average sexual urge. I’m a firm believer in indulging in whatever your blood demands at the moment.”
    Her blood demanded that she kiss him. She scraped some more soap from his face instead. “And has your blood demanded that you become intimate with Neil?” She was hesitant to scrape over the three-inch-long scar than ran from his lower jawbone to his earlobe.
    He grinned but folded his hands on top of the silken arrow that disappeared down the center of his abdomen. “If he’s so inclined. It’s all a matter of how inclined a person is, you see.”
    “Well. I beg to differ. I doubt such a frontiersman as Neil would be inclined to touch another man. Doesn’t he own a cattle ranch next to that dead man’s? And he works at Fort Sanders?” Oh dear . An isolated fort packed with masculine outdoorsmen. Perhaps she wasn’t making her point very well. “How did you get this scar? It’s obviously all right if I shave over it.”
    “By all means. I took a javelin through the jaw in Somalia.”
    Ivy didn’t even know where Somalia was. She imagined it was somewhere near India. Her blade scratched over the imposing, deep scar. “Do the armies usually use javelins?
    “No. It wasn’t an army. A tribesman took offense that we were journeying through his territory. In Africa,” he added with amusement.
    Ivy was shocked he had guessed her ignorance. And she wasn’t done with her original topic yet. “But…you do like women, don’t you? I mean, kissing them, and…”
    “Making love to women? Of course. But you’re venturing into dangerous territory, my dear. A man who needs to steep peach pits in tea water to dull his erection does not need to discuss lovemaking to be carried away by lust. Especially not in the presence of a buxom, intelligent creature such as yourself.”
    Ivy gasped at the boldness of his statement. Her numb fingers tossed the blade into the bowl of water. Her only task left was to grab a clean towel and press it to his face. There was a bottle of rosewater on the vanity table, but she didn’t want this seductive libertine smelling like her father. Going behind the screen to the small table by the tub, Ivy found the bottle of sandalwood oil Harley must have used to masturbate with in the bath—she knew he’d been doing that when she’d first walked in. Men must do that often, she’d always suspected, judging from the two lovers she had had in her life.
    She returned to stand behind him, watching him pat his neck in the mirror. She said thoughtfully, “I suppose I’ve gotten myself into trouble. But perhaps I don’t really consider it ‘trouble.’”
    He tossed the towel onto the table and looked at her askance. He was even more exquisitely attractive when bathed, rich, dark curls hugging his head and gleaming in the lamplight. Ivy felt womanly to the core, being stared at by such an arrogant satyr of a man with such perceptive, flashing eyes. His penis bulged so blatantly she could swear she saw the thick length of it throbbing. “If it’s not trouble, then it could reasonably be called pleasure.”
    Ivy uncorked the bottle and reached both hands in front of Harley. Pouring a bit of the sandalwood oil into one palm, she rubbed it into his chin. Every last nerve in her body tingled with excitement to once again feel a man’s skin against hers.