[She doesn't move for a few moments, though she probably ought to. But his fingers feel sinfully good, rubbing against her neck, pinching here and there, giving her relief in a way she hadn't even thought to seek. It'd take another minute before she'd simply melt against him, pliant and warm in the best of ways. That might be a bit embarrassing, because then she'd be only half a step away from mumbling affection, and that . . . probably wouldn't go over well with him.

So he's right . . . she probably ought to wash up a bit. The outer layer of dirt has long since washed away, but a bit of scrubbing (even with his soap, and she can't imagine it's anything like the rich stuff she buys) would do her good. With a little sigh she squirms just enough to get him to pull his hands back, turning in his arms so she can reach the soap.

If that means his cock is pressing against her ass, well. That seems to be a personal problem for him. She's busy getting cleaned up, thanks, and what a lovely sight that must be for him: her soaping herself up, running a sudsy washcloth over wet skin, over her breasts and between her thighs, humming softly as she does.

She's through, because this isn't just meant to be a tease.]

I know what you like in bed, anyway. Though I wouldn't mind hearing more about where it is you come from. All you've really told me is about your powers-- and that isn't meant to be blaming, before you start. But I'm curious.

[She half-glances behind her, not so much trying to catch his eye as simply address him.]

What was your home like?