Ivory slid my underwear down my legs with clinical efficiency, her warm hands steady despite my feeble protests, callused fingertips grazing my milky white thighs just enough to send unwelcome sparks racing up my spine.
"Come on, you can't remove your underwear all by yourself, can you?"
"Fine."
"You are a good girl, Emily."
"Shut up!"
She eased me into the steaming tub next, the water enveloping my aching, post-physio body like a scalding embrace—bubbles foaming thick around my curves, soothing the fire in my weakened muscles but doing nothing for the raw vulnerability twisting my gut.
"I feel like a baby," I mumbled, cheeks burning crimson as suds clung to my breasts and thickened hips, raven waves plastered damp against my neck. I am completely dependent on these alphas for everything. Also, why are they praising me for the simplest of the things that I do?
