And as the final syllable tumbles from my lips, I soar into euphoric oblivion, every sensation amplified from the last one.
Clouds and stars and shakes and tremors.
My screamed whimper tears through the quiet room, so I bite down on his shoulder as he takes flight with me, and his grunts harmonize with my now-muted moan. We’re a heap of boneless limbs and panting breaths. Thrashing hearts and tangled stories. Severed anguish and hope restored.
And sticky flesh, ripe with a floral stench.
After a few idle beats, we rouse from our blissed-out stupor.
“Shower,” he mutters against my temple with a kiss before carrying me into the bathroom.
We’re spent and satiated and absolutely exhausted, so when the hot water blasts on from the rainfall showerhead and multiple jets, we step inside and let it swallow us, easing our aching muscles and weary minds.
Ryker has my shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in here, obviously thinking of everything. And he washes me, pulling all the pins out of my matted hair, working the lather into my scalp, rinsing, and following with the conditioner. When he gets to the body wash, I squirt a dollop of his into my palm, inhaling the fragrance of wood and leather and cloves as I return the favor, both of us scrubbing every nook and cranny of each other so we don’t reek like fermented grapes and a night at a brothel.
It’s a simple act, both of us too warn out to turn it sexy. But it cocoons me in the cushion of another spiritual journey. I’ve been in hiding for years—from danger, from him, from myself—barely brave enough to stare at my own reflection.
Tonight, he’s bathed me in luxury and fucked me senseless, swept his mouth over my most sensitive places and scrubbed me clean, joined me in my prison and welcomed me into his haven.
All after reminding me to dance and proving he could catch me.
I feel resurrected.
He wraps me in a fluffy towel, ties one around his waist, and disappears, only to return wearing pajama pants and holding a T-shirt for me. After drying me off, he lotions me and slips the shirt over my head. He lends me a toothbrush, and we both brush our teeth. He combs and blows my hair dry. And I stand, mesmerized. Healed by his pampering hands and the expression of contentment on his face.
I haven’t been fussed over this way since I was a child.
Finally, after he feeds me painkillers and makes me drink an entire glass of water, we crawl into bed. The wet towels are thrown in a hamper, the comforter whipped back for us to slide beneath the sheets, his arms and legs engulfing me.
It’s tranquil and comforting and how it should have always been. But after a few minutes in the serenity of his embrace, the quietude is deafening. The anvil of anxiety sits on my chest like an elephant that refuses to vacate. My gorgeous engagement ring burns into my finger, and my thoughts are loud and berating.
What if I shatter when I wake up? What if I can’t be who he needs in this role? What if I’m never okay for more than a fleeting day?
I know he probably doesn’t care about some of that. I know Ryker will take me as I am. But I care. And so I deflect because if I don’t, the shattering will come before my eyes close.
“Did you know that champagne has been proven to prevent memory loss and even delay Alzheimer’s and dementia? Maybe bathing in three hundred bottles has given us a whole extra year of lucidity. Which is good because … well, can you imagine what this night will sound like when—”
“Dear fuck.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, a laugh racking through his chest so vehemently that the whole bed shakes from it. “When I was giving Gentry the instructions for tonight, a conversation eerily close to this one struck me like a premonition. You somehow relating this to the goddamn nursing home.”
The fact that he knew where I was headed before I finished my sentence has me joining him in laughter. “You can’t invalidate this. It’s a worthwhile concern. Picture it. There I am, eating my Jell-O in peace, when a sweet young aide thinks she’ll make small talk to pass the time. She says she heard that I’dattended one of the La Lune Noire Prohibition Balls and wants to know what it was like.”
He grips my chin, his stern icy blues searing into mine. “Do not fucking talk like you don’t have teeth in your mouth when you lay out this absurd scenario.”
I smile, flashing my pearly whites. “Have I done that before?”
“When you told me I could be your fucking wingman in the old folks’ home.”
My hands smack over my face, and I stifle the laughter that’s still flowing freely. “Oh, shoot. Well, knowing how you’ve beenpiningfor me, that was rude. But also, how the hell did I entice you to fall for me with that sexy move?”
His dimple winks in the dawn light as his hand slips under my T-shirt, scratching up and down my spine. “Toothless could have its advantages.”
“Right.” I trace my fingertip over the ink on his left pec, a 3D fleur-de-lis, which is a symbol of New Orleans. “At least this time, I’m bragging about you.”
He kisses my nose. “Do go on then.”
“So, the sweet young gal, who is just anxious to get through her day so she can go home and put her feet up, is looking for tales of flapper gowns and chocolate fountains, swing bands and dancing, and maybe a bit of scandal in the shadows. But I don’t give her any of that. In my jumbled inability to censor myself, I lay it out and shout to the room that I was on the arm of one of the Noire brothers himself and he swept me off my feet. There will be oohs and aahs, and the crowd will grow becausenowit’s getting interesting.”
“Naturally,” he deadpans, underestimating his ability to draw a crowd of women, even sixty years from now.
