The bar of soap in Quinlan's hand felt heavier than any weapon he'd ever wielded.
He stepped forward, feeling the cool river swirling around his waist, and paused right behind Serika's waiting form. Her back was turned with her arms folded behind her neck in a relaxed stretch.
He swallowed once.
Then raised his hands.
Slowly, he pressed the soap to her tanned skin and began to work it along her spine. Her back was a map of muscle and battle, each curve and valley shaped by war rather than vanity. She was a weapon made flesh, and his fingers traced every honed edge.
There was nothing dainty here. No soft giggle. No shy recoil.
Serika merely sighed, closing her eyes.
'Holy hell… what a body,' Quinlan sighed inwardly.
His hands slid over her shoulder blades. Every muscle flexed beneath his fingertips with a controlled strength, like a predator lounging in sunlight.
It was utterly intoxicating to his brain.
