She was laying on her back on a raised stone slate. The room was lit by several torches, casting an orange glow through the steam. Every so often, a thick drop of water would drip from the ceiling onto her body and slide down, joining the slippery condensation on her skin.
The stone was warming on her skin, a drenched woven mat between her breasts and the marbled stone slate beneath.
He walked into the small room quickly and quietly, dressed in simple white cotton. He walked to the sink, and began preparing the area.
"Which oil would you like?" He spoke with his back turned, keeping his eyes focussed on the glass bottles in front of him.
She paused for a moment. When she spoke it was soft and nearly lost with the sound of running water. "Orange blossom"
He nodded, picking up a small bottle of oil, warmed it between his palms and slid his hands against the sole of her foot.
It was a small foot, not much bigger than his hand, with skin the colour of wet terracotta.
His fingers moved between her toes, a little shudder convulsed through her body.
Ticklish.
In silence, he could hear her breath change as he shifted to a firmer pressure, sliding his palms around her calves.
Her hair was wet, swept into a dark tangled knot, exposing the nape of her neck. A few lost strands of dark hair traced their way across her jaw and lead the path towards her spine. A drop of water fell onto her shoulder, following the slopes of her back and disappearing into the thin cotton of her slip dress.
His hands worked without thought, his palms sweeping the slippery surfaces of skin, kneading the edges of her muscles. Condensation covered his forehead, he inhaled the familiar scent of neroli, sweet and citrusy, thick and steamy in his chest.
