But I’m not looking at his pants anymore. Couldn't really care what’s on the ground on fire because all of my focus is on his crotch – clearly the guy had no clean braies left.
I’ve seen his ass before. He has a habit of not caring where he gets dressed. And I’ve slept naked with Roarke and Pax. But that’s nothing compared to seeing his jewels dance and jiggle around.
Jiggle and bounce.
Everything really does just flop about.
“Vexy,” he gasps as he stamps the last flames out of his ruined pants, stopping his dancing and just staring at me.
I try to stare back – at his eyes, that is. Even if all I want to look at is his naked bottom half. “I didn’t do it!”
“Bralls, yes, you did,” he says, slowly catching his breath. Then his lips pull into a broad smile. “And you enjoyed it.”
“You just said bralls!” I exclaim.
Even in the decade I lived and worked alongside Jake, he never, not once, said bralls.
Seth’s eyes go wide. “Bralls,” he repeats slowly, like he’s trying it on for size. Then he shakes his head with mock determination. “Not sure why, but it still sounds ridiculous.”
I chuckle at him, my arms and legs flailing around uselessly in an effort to escape the vat again. To be honest, I have two pretty big problems right now. The first is that his shirt is barely covering his jewels, and the second is that I am barely managing not to stare at what he’s got. Which surprises the bralls out of me, because I was thinking I’d be more of a-pretend-it’s-not-there kind of girl. Not a stare and gasp kind of girl. I’ve had Pax’s arms around me while the guy’s been naked a few times, and yeah, they’re all sexy as hell, but this moment with Seth is somehow different. Staring at Seth’s junk feels like the natural next step in this whole situation.
Instructions on how to do the laundry: step one – get everything wet. Step two – set the Seed of Chaos’ pants on fire. Step three – stare at the one part of him that is making the wettest parts of me even wetter.
Note to self – doing laundry is a dangerous chore… Also, at this rate, everyone will be wearing wet and only partially cleaned clothes.
Because I just want to stare at Seth. All of Seth.
I’m not sure that’s possible? Can I be interested in Pax’s eyes and the way he sinks his teeth into me and be unable to pull my gaze from his expression, then with Seth be hyper-aware of a totally different body part? A girl should fall in love with one guy, and not several, and then if she falls for several, shouldn’t she love them all equally?
I’m so confused.
But that’s not enough to stop me from guessing length in comparison to the hem of his shirt, and noting that the shape of his, ah… tip, is different from Pax’s. I’m not ready to ask either of them why, though.
My other big problem right now is that my ass is starting to burn.
Seth walks purposefully up to the vat.
“You need me to get you out?”
I nod, making a little ‘uh-huh’ noise.
“How badly?”
“Burning my butt badly.”
“I can’t smell flesh burning yet – and I should know,” he says, pointing at his leg.
“Oh, come on, there isn’t a mark on you. On the other hand, you’re now standing very close to the fire with no pants on, and you’ve got enough hair down there for me to set on fire.”
One hand darts down to shield his jewels, but he doesn’t step back.
“I bet you couldn’t do that again even if you tried.”
With my bum getting incredibly hot, I focus on what little wiry hair he has… hard… Fire, meet pubic hair.
A sharp stabbing sensation shoots through my temples. I gasp and clap my hands to my head. My eyes squeeze shut against the sudden pain.
He hooks a finger under my chin, tilting my head back and just waiting for the pain to dull and for me to open my eyes.
“Now, I imagine what you’re trying to do is Allure, not Chaos, and I imagine you’re still doing it wrong,” he says.
“Was it Chaos last time?”
“Sure felt like it,” he says, rubbing his balls.
“I have no idea what the difference is, and I have no idea how I manage to do any of it,” I groan.
He nods, just once, like he understands, and says, “Let me get some pants,” grabbing the nearest pair off the railing.
“They’re my pants,” I say.
“Then you’ll have to get in here with me.” For something so funny, he says it with a straight face and just the tiniest quirk of the corner of his lips.
Then he cradles me out of the vat and puts me on my feet. Water cascades down my body, turning the dirt under my feet into mud that instantly slides between my bare toes. But he doesn’t let go of me, and after a long second, I realize he’s waiting for something. One arm is wrapped around my shoulders and the other is on my bicep, with barely any room between us.
“Has it gone?” he asks.
“The pain in my head? Mostly. The pain-in-the-ass holding onto me? No, he’s still here.”
He chuckles, his chest rumbling against mine. “I’m serious. On a scale of one to ten, how bad was that?”
“Maybe a four or five.”
“How bad was breaking your arm?”
“An eight.”
“Right, we now have a scale of one to eight because breaking your arm should have been way up there.”
“Eight is way up there,” I protest. Way up there. Things worse than eight come at Lord Martin’s hand, and I’m not going into that explanation right now. If Lord Martin isn’t involved, I can shave things back from a ten, or even a nine, in the terror
