On the other end of the house, we built a library. Real bookshelves, floor to ceiling, with one of those rolling ladders I've always wanted. That's where I spend most of my time. Some days Kaelren and I just spend the entire afternoon reading, stretched out in overstuffed chairs, not talking, not needing to. Just existing in the same room with the windows open and the smell of the garden drifting in.
This is the life I wanted. There's no politics. No death. No trying to survive another day in a realm that wants to consume you. We just get tolive.
My favorite part of the renovation is the bathroom. I insisted on a massive claw-foot tub. One big enough to hold both Kaelren and me. Considering he’s taller than any human, you can imagine the size of it. It’s practically a small pool.
The vision shifts, and suddenly there's steaming water in the bathtub. Soap bubbles come up to the edge, the room thick with warmth and the scent of lavender. Next thing I know, I'm lifted and placed in the tub. I look down and I'm naked, skin flushed from the heat, and I look over to the side and Kaelren is standing there.
In all his naked glory.
His abdomen is on full display, hard ridges and clean lines, his carved marks tracing dark patterns across his chest and down his hips. My eyes travel lower because I have zero self-controlwith this man, and the package he has is truly the gift that keeps on giving. My mouth waters.
"Will you join me?" I ask.
He smirks. That devastating, knowing smirk that makes my stomach flip. "You don't even have to ask."
He climbs into the tub and settles opposite me. Water sloshes over the sides. He takes one of my feet in his hands and massages it, his thumbs pressing into the arch with slow, deliberate pressure. He works lavender oil into my skin; the scent mixing with the steam and the warmth until my entire body goes loose.
He pours me wine. Serves me chocolate. We laugh about something, I can't even remember what, something small and stupid and perfect, and we play in the water like there's no weight on us at all.
Then the massage moves higher. Up my calves. Past my knees. His hands sliding along my skin beneath the water with deliberate patience.
He reaches the apex between my thighs, and I gasp.
The most mischievous grin spreads across his face. The kind that says he knows exactly what he's doing and has no intention of stopping.
"You didn't think I was going to let you get clean without getting a little dirty first, did you?" he says.
I throw my head back and laugh. "Knowing you, everything is always dirty. But do tell, what exactly you have planned for me?" "Well," he says, and his voice drops to that low register that turns my insides to liquid. "I like to feel how silky your skin is in the water. It makes it so easy for my hands to slide up your body." As he speaks, he does exactly that. His hands traveling up, running along the curve of my waist, sliding underneath my breasts.
I gasp again, and he grins wider.
"You see, I love it when you make those sounds," he murmurs. "Because it tells me I'm on the right track."
I swallow hard and look down at him. My breathing has become uneven. "And what track is that?"
"Well," he says, "it's better if I show you."
He captures one of my nipples in his mouth. Slow. Deliberate. His tongue is warm and wet and maddening. He crawls over me, and the water crashes over the edge of the tub, flooding the floor, and neither one of us cares. His mouth finds my neck, kissing along the line of it, his hands firm on my hips, his thumbs drawing slow, agonizing circles against my skin.
He smells of mahogany and something dark and deep. Something that is only him, only Kaelren, a scent I could find blindfolded in a room full of people.
He comes up to my lips and captures them in a kiss. Slow and deep and thorough. When he pulls back, he licks his lower lip.
"Raspberry and chocolate," he says. "My favorite."
The kiss goes on, long and unhurried, the kind that exists in its own pocket of time where nothing else matters and nothing else exists. When he pulls away again, his silver eyes are dark.
"You know what goes best with dessert?" he asks.
I laugh breathlessly. "No, please do tell."
"It's this wonderful treat I've learned about. Called whipped cream. And it comes in a machine of some sort—"
"You mean whipped cream in a can."
"Yes. It's almost like magic how it comes out."
He produces a can from somewhere and tips it slowly, drawing a line of whipped cream along my collarbone and down between my breasts.
