17
ARIEL
We drifted back to the cabin the way fog finds low ground, quiet, inevitable. The porch gave its little welcome sigh, the washers on the fishing line ticked once like a secret handshake, and the door took us in as if it had been holding its breath for us all day.
It smelled like the morning, smoke, pine, the Ghost of coffee, and underneath it, warmer things: canned peaches, his skin on mine, soap and heat and the memory of the cave. The stove answered a match with a pleased cough. Steam began in the kettle like a promise that meant to keep itself.
“Twenty minutes,” I said, already grinning.
“Ten,” he countered, already softening.
“Split the difference. Fifteen,” I bargained, stepping into him.
He met me halfway. His hands went to my jaw, thumbs brushing the corners of my mouth like he was learning them again. The first kiss was patient, a slow slide that said we’re safe for exactly this. The second stole patience and set it aside. His mouth took mine, warm and sure, and the rest of the room went unfocused. I rose onto my toes. He bent that stubborn inch. We found the place between us that never quite closes.
“Bath,” I said against his mouth, because I wanted to feel him everywhere at once.
“Bath,” he agreed, breath already roughening.
The back room held a claw-foot tub like a dare. No plumbing, just a pump and an iron hearth big enough to intimidate water into being kind. We worked it together: two trips with the pot, one more for luck. Steam curled up the rafters, drew a veil over the world. He checked the lines once more, rifle by the door where it could see without being seen, then came back to me, eyes gone dark, shoulders unwinding like he’d found the one place he could.
“Boots,” he murmured, and knelt to untie them, the simple work of his fingers making heat crawl low in my belly. He rubbed warmth into my toes with thumbs nicked and careful, every stroke a small claim. I threaded my hands into his hair and found the knot he keeps at the crown; it loosened under my fingers, and he exhaled like relief.
I undressed fast until fast felt like unwrapping a gift wrong. He slowed me down, palms over ribs, mouth at my shoulder, the kind of restraint that’s not denial so much as reverence. He stripped like a soldier, efficient, folded, until he was just skin and heat and every scar I’d learned by touch. He watched me watch him. He didn’t look away.
I slid into the water and all the cold in me let go. He climbed in behind, long body fitted to mine, knees bracketing my hips, chest to my back, arms a band across my middle. That first full-body press, that was the exploding star. I made a noise I didn’t plan to make. He answered with his mouth at the hinge of my jaw, a slow drag of lips and breath that promised more.
“Put your head where your hands are,” he whispered, his rule for surviving, his recipe for peace.
“My hands are on you,” I said.
“Good,” he said, and kissed me again.
Heat did its holy work. The world shrank to sliding skin, the glossy weight of water, the tiny, helpless sounds we made whenwe forgot to be brave. He turned me in his lap, and I straddled him, knees outside his hips, thighs skimming along him as the water climbed and lapped over the rim. Porcelain kissed my knees; his back hit the slope of the tub.
His hands settled on my waist, then lower, thumbs finding the hollows that make my breath catch, guiding without stealing control. I took it, greedy. I set the rhythm I wanted. He matched it like worship.
“Look at me,” he said, voice ruined just enough, and when I did the whole room sharpened, his eyes blown wide, his mouth wrecked with wanting, the muscle in his jaw working to hold onto the last of his patience.
“Tell me,” I said, because I liked truths that panted.
“I want you,” he said simply. “I want you warm and loud and not thinking about anything but me.”
“Good,” I said, and moved.
Friction turned to fire. I rocked forward until my palms found the rim of the tub on either side of his shoulders, elbows locked, my body arched over his. The angle slid from sweet to devastating when he lifted his hips and met me there, relentless and precise, the kind of patience that ruins you in the best way. His praise was a rasp at my ear, good girl, that’s it, take what you need, and I did, riding him deeper, taking, taking, until the thought I held like a coin melted on my tongue. I clawed for the porcelain, fingers wet and slipping and had to grab his shoulders and hold on.
“Cap,” I warned, breath breaking.
“I’ve got you,” he said, and he did. He kissed me through it, slow and deep as the first kiss, while my body lit up and let go, heat rushing bright and helpless, a tremor I couldn’t quiet even if I wanted to. He held me together while I came apart.
When I floated back, dazed and grinning, he was watching me like I’d done a magic trick just for him and he meant toapplaud forever. I shifted, bracing one hand on the tub’s edge, the other on his chest, slick heat between us. He slid his hands up my spine and tipped my hips, changing the line. The next stroke dragged right over the place that made my vision spark.
“Again,” he said, low. “Let me feel you.”
I didn’t have to be asked twice. I planted my feet wider on the porcelain floor, thighs burning, and rode him hard enough to send water over the lip. He met every drop of me, jaw set, thumbs pressing into my hips to keep me exactly where he wanted me. The pace climbed, messy, perfect. The sound of us filled the room: water slapping, breath breaking, my name in his mouth like a vow.
“Stay with me,” he ground out. “Right there.”
