The place smells like clean linen and cedar when we walk in. Danae slips her shoes off and just stands there for a second, like her body doesn’t know what to do without machines, call lights and the smell of antiseptic everywhere.
I take her hands. “You don’t have to do anything,” I tell her. “Just be.”
She nods, eyes shining, and leans into me like that alone is permission.
I run the bath while she wanders the space, fingertips brushing walls, windows, the edge of the bed. When I come back for her, the bathroom is warm, water steaming gently fogging the mirror a little. I help her undress slowly, deliberately, like there’s no rush to be anywhere in the world but here. Her skin is pale against the dim light, almost luminous. I don’t touch her right away—just gaze. Appreciating the view in front of me.
She exhales when I finally slide my hands over her shoulders, thumbs pressing into tight muscle.
“Let me take care of you,” I murmur.
She sinks into the tub with a soft sound, eyes fluttering closed as I wash her hair, pour water over her shoulders, smooth soap over her arms. Every movement is unhurried. Cherished.
My hands are inked black and gray, scars and stories etched into them, and every time they pass over her clean skin I feel the contrast like a jolt—my rough edges against her untouched, alabaster softness.
I love it. I love how she trusts me with it.
After, I wrap her in towels and carry her to the bed, her weight light in my arms. I rub oil into her skin, starting at her shoulders, working down slowly, methodically, like I’m mapping her by touch alone. Maybe I am. I can’t say what the future holds, but this right here, the feel of her matters and will forever be etched into my mind.
She sighs beneath my hands, body melting into the mattress. When my palms slide over her thighs, the ink on my forearms stands out stark and dark against her pale skin, and something possessive tightens in my chest. It’s not ownership, but awe.
She’s beautiful.
I kiss her slowly, everywhere but where she wants it most. Along her jaw. Her collarbone. The inside of her knee. I take my time learning her reactions, the way her breath catches, the way her fingers curl into the sheets when I deny her.
When she reaches for me, I catch her wrists gently and pin them above her head.
“Let me,” I whisper. “Cherish every inch of you, Danae. This isn’t about me or sex. Let me treasure you.”
Her eyes darken. She nods.
I remain steadfast in this delicate torture. My cock rock hard against the fabric of my sweatpants, but his isn’t his time or mine. This is about her. No clock. No urgency. Just my mouth, my hands, my focus entirely on her responses—every shudder, every whispered sound, every arch of her body.
Only when her pussy glistens in her desire do I give in licking her, fingering her, and allowing my thumb to press firm circles against her clit. Starting slow and speeding up, I allowed her body to build and climb. She grips my hair holding my head between her thighs letting me know just how close she is to release.
When she finally comes undone, it’s quiet, but deep and wrecking, like something unspooling from her core instead of exploding outward. Her entire body trembles under me. I hold her through it, steady and grounding, until she comes back to herself.
After, I gather her against me, her head on my chest, my arms wrapped around her like this is where she belongs.
For tonight, at least. And as sleep takes her, one thought settles heavy and certain in my mind:
I’m not passing through anymore. I’m not in a race to hit the road.
I measure time in mornings after that. Not hours. Not days. Mornings where she wakes up tangled in me like she forgot how to sleep alone. Mornings where light spills through unfamiliar windows and for a split second I don’t know where I am—only that her breath is warm against my chest and my hand is resting on her hip like it’s always belonged there.
Three more nights in our hideaway.
They blur together in the best way. Slow dinners. Long showers. Her laughter in borrowed spaces. The way she starts reaching for me without hesitation, like her body already understands something her mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
We don’t talk about the future. That’s the quiet rule we never say out loud. But it’s there, humming beneath everything.
The third night, she falls asleep with her leg thrown over mine, fingers curled into my forearm, right where the ink darkens. I stare at the ceiling long after she drifts off, watching shadows move, thinking about how easy this feels.
And the ease of it all, that is what scares me most.
All good things come to an end. Even knowing logistically I couldn’t stay here long term, making it real was a different feeling for me. Country Boy calls two days after we went back to her place and the usual grind of her working three to four nights a week. Josie soaking up time with her grandfather while wrangling her kids while Raff and I have stayed busy fixing things around the house for Danae.
The phone rings and I know it’s him before I even answer. My chest tightens like my body’s already bracing for impact.
