She took me deeper, her lips stretching around me, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked. The heat of her mouth, the water pounding down—it was sensory overload. I thrust shallowly, careful not to overwhelm her, but she took it, moaning around me like she was enjoying it as much as I was.
I didn't last long. The build was fast, intense, and when I came, it was with her name on my lips, spilling down her throat.
She swallowed, then looked up at me with a satisfied smile.
We finished washing quickly after that—rinsing off, stepping out into the steam-filled bathroom. I grabbed towels—thick, white, heated on the rack—and wrapped one around her, drying her gently.
There were robes hanging on the door—soft, white terrycloth, monogrammed with some subtle logo I didn't recognize. Sanctuary standard, probably. We slipped them on, the fabric warm against our skin.
She looked adorable in hers—hair damp and tousled, cheeks flushed, the robe swallowing her frame.
I wanted her all over again.
But food first.
We padded down the hall to the kitchen, barefoot, the floor cool under our feet. Ellsworth had left everything as promised—glass containers labeled neatly in elegant script: filets, potatoes and greens. There was even a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge, two glasses set out on the counter.
Mila whistled softly. "Your butler is efficient."
I chuckled. "You have no idea."
We heated the food—nothing fancy, just enough to take the chill off—and sat at the counter, side by side, robes gaping just enough to tease glimpses of skin.
She talked.
About her residency. About a shoot she'd done that afternoon—some fashion thing with a model who looked like she belonged in a painting. About how Paris was changing her, making her see things differently. Colors. Light. Herself.
I watched her, mesmerized.
The way her hands moved when she spoke, expressive and fluid. The way her eyes lit up when she described framing a shot just right. The way she laughed at herself when she admitted she'd tripped over her words in French earlier that day.
She was alive in a way that made everything else feel dull.
And as I listened, the discomfort I'd been carrying—the shadow of Merrick, the past, the danger—faded further into the background. It was still there, a low hum I couldn't ignore entirely, but here, with her, it felt manageable. Distant.
At least in The Sanctuary, we were safe. For now.
We ate slowly, savoring the food—rich flavors that exploded on the tongue, wine that warmed us from the inside out. The foie gras was buttery and decadent, the sole flaky and perfect.
We decided to save the dessert for morning, with coffee. Something to look forward to.
"You tired?" I asked, glancing at the clock. It was late—past midnight—but neither of us seemed ready for sleep.
She gave me that look again—the one from the café, bold and unapologetic, heat simmering just beneath the surface.
"Grab the whipped cream from the fridge," she said.
My pulse kicked.
I didn't ask why. Didn't need to.
I stood, opened the fridge, and pulled out the small container of fresh whipped cream—another Ellsworth special, probably made from scratch.
When I turned back, she was watching me, her robe slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast.
We made it back to the bedroom—barely.
The door shut behind us, and she untied her robe, letting it pool at her feet. Naked. Unashamed. Beautiful in a way that stole my breath.
