I turn on the shower and wait until the water runs hot, steam curling up toward the ceiling.Then I guide her inside.
She pauses, taking in the eight-headed shower system, the stone tile, the glass, the heat.
I watch her face.
That little nod.That soft sigh when the water hits her skin.
She’s impressed—but not intimidated.
Good.
Because I don’t want her overwhelmed by my money.
I want her impressed by the way I treat her.
We wash slowly.
No rush.
Just hands sliding over skin.
Soap and steam and the quiet intimacy of standing under hot water with a woman who said yes.
Afterward, she pads back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel and asks, almost shyly, if she can borrow something to wear.
I toss her a flannel.
Not just any.
One of my favorites.
She pulls it on, the hem brushing her thighs, then grabs a pair of my gray boxers and rolls the waistband once.
Jesus Christ.
She’s adorable.
Sexy as hell.
Mine.
Downstairs, I sit her up on the kitchen counter like she belongs there.Like she’s always belonged there.
“How do you like your eggs?”I ask, pulling pans from the cabinet.
“Scrambled.”
“Me too.”
She smiles, small and genuine, and moves to make the coffee while I cook.
We fall into an easy rhythm.
I crack eggs.
She pours water into the machine.
I flip bacon.
