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It was an unusual canvas we were on, but then again, the most remarkable art is often born from the unlikeliest places.
The door creaked open,and Madison stepped out of the bathroom.
My breath hitched in my throat as I watched her, my eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room.
Even in the muted light, she was a vision.
Her damp hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, catching the stray beams of moonlight that seeped through the window.
The simple nightdress she wore clung to her form, accentuating her curves and leaving very little to my imagination.
As she neared, the faint aroma of soap and water enveloped me — a heady mix of earthy musk and delicate floral notes.
I breathed it in as an unexpected pang of desire made its way up my chest.
She bit her lower lip, her sea-green eyes glimmering with uncertainty. “Are you sure I can take your bed?”
Her voice was barely above a whisper, the words hanging heavy in the silent room.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
I was aware of the distinct quickening of my pulse, the peculiar heat that was starting to pool in the pit of my stomach.
Madison had turned the mundane into a spectacle, and I was a willing audience.
With a tentative nod, she climbed into my bed, her movements careful and slow.
The mattress creaked under her weight, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
She burrowed deep under the covers, her eyes peeking out from the top.
Even in the semi-darkness, I could make out the relieved sigh that slipped from her lips.
With her settled, I moved to turn off the light.
The soft click of the switch seemed to echo through the room, amplifying the tension that hung in the air.
Then, with nothing but the moonlight for illumination, I lay down on the floor.
The cold floor was unforgiving against my back, the solid planks offering no comfort.
I stretched out, folding my hands behind my head, my eyes trained on the shadowed ceiling above.
I could feel every knot and groove of the wooden floor pressing against my body, and the rough texture of my jacket did little to cushion my discomfort.
The quiet rustling of fabric told me Madison was shifting in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position.
Her breathing slowed down to a rhythmic pattern, signifying her descent into slumber.
With her close by and seemingly safe, I allowed myself to close my eyes, focusing on the sounds around me.
The faint ticking of a clock somewhere, the occasional fluttering of a moth against the window pane, Madison’s even breaths filling the room — all creating a tranquil symphony of the night.
Despite the discomfort, a strange sense of peace washed over me.
Madison was safe, and in the quiet of the night, amidst the hum of a sleeping inn, it felt oddly right.
My last thought before sleep claimed me was of the morning sun spilling over her face, lighting up her features with a golden glow.
