She does, gathering her hair over one shoulder. I wet a washcloth and run it over the slope of her shoulder where the strap lay all afternoon. Slow circles, faint steam rising from where the warm meets the cool of the room. My thumb follows with a second pass, softer.
I trade the cloth for my hands—soap lathered just enough to make things glide—and move down her arm. Inside of elbow. Wrist. Each finger. I kiss her knuckles after I rinse them, my mouth finding the cool edge of metal and the familiar warmth of her. She tips her head back against the porcelain edge and closes her eyes and I feel something in my chest open up like a window catching wind.
I move upward, my hands cupping her breast tenderly. Her skin is warm, her nipple already tight beneath my touch. I pause, my thumb brushing over it gently, feeling it harden further.
“Ash,” she breathes, her voice a mix of pleasure and vulnerability. I look up, meeting her gaze, and see the way her eyes shine with something raw and unguarded. I swallow, my throat tight, and continue downward, my fingers careful and reverent as I wash between her legs.
When I finally pull my hand away, she lets out a soft sigh, her body relaxing against the edge of the tub. I rinse the soap from my hands, the water cool against my skin, and turn to face her. Her eyes are half-lidded, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her cheeks flushed. I reach for the soap again, handing it to her with a small smile.
“Your turn,” I say, my voice low, almost a challenge.
Olive takes the soap, her fingers brushing mine. She starts with my arms, her hands gliding over my skin with the same slow, deliberate motions I used on her. Her touch is gentle yet firm, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my arms and chest. I close my eyes, letting myself feel the weight of her hands, the way they seem to memorize every inch of me.
"You’re all muscle,” she teases, her fingers lingering on the ridges of my biceps before sliding down to my chest.
Her touch grows firmer there, palms pressing into my pecs as she washes me. When her fingers graze over my nipples, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. She smirks, eyes locking with mine, mischief sparking bright in them.
“Sensitive, huh?” she murmurs, her thumb circling one.
I force a shrug, though my pulse is pounding, my skin alive under her touch. “Not at all,” I say smoothly, though my voice betrays me. “This is just how I always breathe.”
She laughs—a soft, breathy sound that curls around me—before her hands drift lower, gliding over my stomach and then slipping between my legs.
Her touch is careful, her fingers wrapping around me with a gentleness that makes my breath hitch. She strokes me slowly, the soap creating a slippery glide that sends shivers through me. I let my head fall back, my eyes closing as I focus on the sensation. Her touch is deliberate, purposeful, and I can feel myself hardening in her hand.
“Come on,” I say, voice lower than I mean it to be. “Let’s check out the balcony.”
I wrap her in one of those hotel towels that feel like stolen clouds, tuck the edge just under her arm, then drape another across my own shoulders. We pad barefoot through the suite, past the soft spill of city light on the floorboards, to the open balcony door.
We step out and it’s like we’re in our own private sanctuary. A high wall of greenery protects us from view.
“Mrs. Ryder,” I say, pulling her in for a hug and a kiss.
She grins. “I like the sound of that. Say it again?”
“At your service, Mrs. Ryder.”
Her laugh is quiet, wrecked, perfect. The kind that knocks out the last of my nerves.
I nudge her shoulder with mine. “You know,” I say, mock-thoughtful, “in earlier centuries they didn’t consider a marriagefully legaluntil it was, uh… consummated.” I feel my dick twitch at the thought of making it real with her.
She turns her head slowly, one eyebrow climbing like a cat up a bookshelf. “Is that so, dear husband?”
“Mm.” I keep a straight face I absolutely don’t deserve. “Very important historical precedent. Case law is clear: without…practical follow-through,the whole union could be tossed out on a technicality.”
She snorts. “You’re telling me our vows are hanging by a procedural thread.”
“I’m just saying I’d hate for anyone to question the legitimacy of this very respectable institution we entered into today.” I gesture between us, solemn as a judge. “We should probably file the necessary… paperwork.”
“By paperwork you mean—”
“Hands-on documentation,” I cough. “Forthe record.”
She laughs—head back, delighted, a sound that feels like a stamp of approval from the universe. “Objection: leading the witness.”
“Overruled,” I murmur, stepping closer. “Permission to approach.”
“Granted,” she says, soft and smug at once, and tips her face up to mine.
