But all that comes out, low and uneven, is, “Hi, beautiful.”
“You’re home,” she says, and everything I’m carrying loosens a notch as the light beams across her tired face.
“I’m home,” I say, stepping into the bathroom and kneeling beside the tub until we’re eye level. Close enough to see the water bead along her shoulder and slip down the curve of her breast. “You waited up for me, princess?”
She smiles, tired but playful. “You left before I could get my morning kiss,” she murmurs. “So I needed my goodnight kiss.”
“My apologies, princess,” I murmur. “Then I shouldn’t keep you waiting.”
I lean in and kiss her, slow and careful. She tastes faintly of mint and warmth, the kind of softness that makes the rest of the day fade out. When I pull back, her eyes are half-lidded, the corner of her mouth curved in that adorable way that makes my stomach flip even after all these years.
I stand and unbutton my shirt, laying it over the chair, then step out of my slacks. The water ripples when I slide in beside her. She shifts forward, giving me space, and I draw her back against my chest.
For a while, neither of us says anything. The only sounds are the faint lap of water and the steady rhythm of our breathing.Her head rests against my shoulder, the wet ends of her hair brushing my collarbone.
She runs her fingers over my forearm, tracing idle patterns. “You’re quiet,” she says softly. “Bad day?”
I let out a shaky breath. “Long day,” I correct, but it comes out heavier than I intend.
She tilts her head just enough to look at me. “That’s not what I asked.”
A smile tugs at my mouth, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. I reach for the washcloth, dip it in the warm water, and start to run it gently along her arm.
“Multi-billion-dollar companies are stressful, princess,” I say. “You know how it is—numbers, meetings, everyone wanting something from you. I never really wanted to run a company.”
Her brows knit slightly. “So don’t,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to.”
I keep moving the cloth over her skin, the warmth of the water seeping into both of us. “It’s my family legacy,” I murmur. “And my siblings just graduated college. I can’t make them run the company when their lives have barely started.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should be.The twins.They’ve been out of the country more than they’ve been home, raised on boarding schools and distance. We talk sometimes. Holidays. Obligatory dinners. Brief phone calls that end before they really begin. After my father’s death and Angie’s disappearance—their biological mother, my stepmother—I became the only family they had left, aside from my own mother, who took them in like they were hers when she found out Angie had abandoned them.
Despite not being close, I still feel like I should protect them from everything.
“I could hand the company to someone else,” I say quietly.
Willow traces small circles in the water, her touch soft against my arm. “What about your mother?” she whispers. “She’d run the company for a while if you asked her.”
I exhale, staring at the faint ripples her fingers leave behind. “I can’t ask her to protect my father’s legacy,” I say, shaking my head. “Not after everything he did to her.”
She sighs, turning to me with a teasing smile.
“What?” I smirk.
"Honestly," she says, her tone teasing as she leans in closer, "if you insist on being the big bad CEO all day, the least I can do is make sure you remember how to unwind." Her lips brush against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Let me take care of you, Vincent."
I open my eyes just enough to catch her smirk, and despite the exhaustion clinging to me, I manage to raise an eyebrow. "Is that so? And what exactly does 'taking care of me' entail?"
She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she shifts gracefully in the water, her body turning until she’s facing me. I watch, captivated, as she rises slightly and then settles back down, straddling my lap. The water ripples around us, and her skin glistens in the soft light. She lightly shakes her hair out of her face, her expression a mix of mischief and something far more tender.
“This,” she says simply, her hands coming to rest on my thighs behind her. “You’ve been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Let me help you ease some of it.”
Her fingers are already on my shoulders, pressing me back against the warm porcelain. I don't resist. I let my head fall back, my eyes closing as the day’s tension finally begins to crack under her touch.
The washcloth is warm and heavy with water when she brings it to my chest. She drags it lazily over my skin, and the heat seeps deep into muscles wound tight from hours ofboardroom battles and corporate warfare. A groan rumbles in my chest, slipping out before I can stop it.
"I know," she whispers, her breath a ghost against my ear. "Just let go, Vincent. I've got you."
Her hands, slick with lavender-scented soap, work in careful circles. Over the hard planes of my chest, down the tense ridges of my abdomen. She isn't just washing me; she’s mapping me, relearning the territory stress had tried to claim. Each pass of her hands is an absolution. Each stroke whispers,you are here, you are with me, you are mine.
