Chapter 26
Silas
I’m not sure where it came from. Or why the words even left my mouth. But as soon as they had — I knew I was in trouble.
“A really hot bath sounds nice right about now.”
Her eyes darkened, locking on mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” but my voice rasped around the word. “I’ll draw you — us — a bath.”
Her neck flushed, but she nodded, teeth worrying her bottom lip.
The bath took too long, and yet there didn’t seem to be enough time between the moment I stepped into the small washroom, and when the clawfoot tub was filled.
As I turned to find her, Colette was already standing in the doorway. “Miss me that quickly?” I teased, but there was no heat behind my words.
“Something like that,” she whispered softly in reply, tugging on the sleeves of my flannel she was wrapped up in.
“Come on, then.” I held my hand out, an invitation. “But close that door behind you.”
She moved as though she were in a dream, almost ethereal in the way she made her way over to me.
I wanted to lock her in this bathroom and keep her.
Which… was a dangerous place to be.
“Need help?” The question hovered between us, my voice rough around the edges, and there was a part of me — a very loud, very reckless part — that was already begging her to say yes.
Colette swallowed, her fingers still twisted in the ends of the flannel I’d lent her. My flannel. That was now hanging off her body like I'd only dreamt of before.
Her gaze flicked down my chest, then up again, and her tongue darted over her bottom lip as if she wasn't meaning to — like she’d forgotten her own body for a second.
God.
That look alone could undo me.
“I guess I do,” she said, barely above a whisper.
I stepped closer — not touching her yet, but close enough to feel the heat coming off her, warm and fragile and dangerous in all the ways I couldn’t resist anymore.
“It’s just buttons,” she added, voice trembling — but there was that spark in her eyes. The one that said she knew this wasn’t just about buttons.
“Just buttons,” I repeated, even though we both heard the lie in it. My fingers found the top one, brushing the fluttering pulse at her throat. She sucked in a breath.
One button undone.
Then another.
Slow. A question between each one.
Her chest rose and fell — unsteady, hopeful, catching on every moment of hesitation and wanting.
“Is this okay?” I murmured, letting my knuckles drift lightly down the collar of her shirt, barely grazing the swell of her breast, pausing for an answer.
She nodded — but didn’t just nod.
She stepped into me. Let her forehead brush my jaw. Placed her hands lightly at my waist — she’d say stop if she needed to, but right now, she didn’t intend to.
“It’s more than okay,” she breathed.
So I kept going.
Not because I was in control — but because she was giving the control to me.
The last button came undone, and for a moment we just stood there, suspended in the quiet heat of a bathroom lit by flickering candlelight and steam off the still water, pretending the world outside didn’t exist.
It was almost awkward — in the way that new yearning always is. The flannel slipped off her shoulders as though it had been waiting for that moment all along, pooling around her arms where my fingers guided it.
Her breath hitched — but she didn’t move away.
Didn’t hide herself.
Didn’t pretend she wasn’t trembling a little.
I didn’t pretend I wasn’t, either.
Something about her, standing here like this, chest completely bare to me, was more seductive than any silk or lingerie could have been. It was vulnerability wrapped in my own damn clothes.
It was strange, really — how quiet it was in the room. Like the world had held its breath and given us this one bubble of time, we were both too afraid to break.
I pulled the shirt from her arms, letting it fall to the floor. Didn’t dare look her directly in the eyes yet.
I didn’t want to startle the moment. Or ruin it with anything too loud.
Her hands found the edge of my thermal shirt then, twisting in it as though she didn’t quite know what to do with herself, but didn’t want to be still anymore.
“Your turn,” she whispered, her voice hardly more than a flutter.
I pulled it over my head in one slow motion, watching her watching me.
Then the two of us… just stood there.
Half-dressed.
Definitely not indifferent.
Her thumbs hovered at the waist of her underwear, waiting — and something in my chest pressed tight, because she looked like she was daring herself to keep going.
“Only if you want to.” I said it low, meaning every word.
She took in a breath. Deep. Bracing. “I want you to.”
Without pretense, I dropped to one knee in front of her, the old tile cold against my skin, and hooked my fingers in the waistband of the soft cotton. My pulse thudded in my throat.
I didn’t look at her body — not really. I looked at her.
The faint tremble in her stomach, the way she bit the inside of her cheek, almost as though she didn’t quite know what to do with her hands.
“Breathe,” I whispered, mostly for her, maybe a little for myself.
I eased them down inch by inch, slow enough that she could stop me if she wanted.
She didn’t.
She just stood there, trembling in the soft steam and the quiet candlelight, until I’d slid the last bit of fabric free and set it neatly aside.
And before she could shrink under the weight of it, I pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist — light, reverent.
Her breath hitched.
“Your turn,” I said, voice low, half-rasped. Because if this was about trust, then I had to give it back.
Her hands were shaking when she reached for me — not from fear exactly, but from something gentler.
She slipped her fingers under the waistband of my boxers, hesitated — looked up at me like she needed to make sure I meant it.
I did. I nodded once.
And when she pushed them down — careful, slow — it didn’t feel like undressing.
It felt like surrender.
Like two people setting down every defense they’d ever built.
When it was done, she whispered, barely audible, “Now what?”
And I — trying not to ruin it with the wrong kind of want — just smiled and reached for her hand. “Now,” I said softly, “we get in the bath before we freeze.”
Steam curled around us, waiting for this exact moment.
The tub was too small, the water warm and fragrant, but all I could see was her.
Colette. She looked ridiculous and perfect all at once, hair plastered to her forehead, cheeks pink from the heat, eyes wide and alert, like she was measuring me the same way I was measuring her.
I slipped in behind her, careful not to jostle the water too much, though my chest brushed her shoulder almost immediately. That tiny, involuntary contact sent a sharp, stupid thrill through me. God, she’s warm.
“Careful,” she warned, voice small. I could hear the nervous tension beneath the teasing.
“Relax,” I murmured, voice low. “I can manage.”
Her hand brushed mine as she reached for the soap. Just the tips of her fingers, but my thumb traced over hers almost instinctively. Heat blossomed in my chest, a slow, steady burn that had nothing to do with the water. She gasped softly. I noticed.
I didn’t pull away.
The room smelled faintly of pine, soap, and her. Everything about her was too much. Too bright. Too alive. And I hadn’t even touched her properly yet.
She splashed water at me — little droplets — but I countered, flicking water back in a playful, calculated way.
She squealed and laughed, and the sound made something in my chest twist. I wanted to draw her closer, just to feel her weight against me, but I had to be careful. She wasn’t mine to claim. Not yet.
For a quiet moment, we both just leaned back, letting the heat of the water and the nearness of each other fill the silence. My eyes kept catching hers in the mirror, reflection hazy with steam, every subtle shift of her shoulders, the way her lips parted slightly. My chest ached.
“I could get used to this,” I murmured, voice soft enough that only she could hear.
Her small laugh was all the answer I needed. And yet, the ache in me deepened — not frustration, not longing, not desire exactly, but all of it at once. She was intoxicating. Dangerous. My pulse hitched with every brush of skin, every tiny, casual touch that somehow felt like a promise.
She teased me, playing with the water. She had no idea how badly I wanted to pull her closer, how badly I wanted to feel her pressed fully against me. My hands itched to do more than just hover near her, to trace the curve of her shoulder, the small slope of her neck — but I couldn’t.
I had to let her lead.
And so I leaned back, letting the warmth of her press into me. Watching her. Listening. Feeling everything — heart, pulse, breath — fold into hers.
For once, I could let the world go. Let her be the only thing that mattered.
I tried to focus on the soap, on the water, on anything, but she kept moving just enough to make my hands itch.
Fingers brushed accidentally — or maybe not — against mine.
The little gasp she made every time a droplet hit her shoulder, every time I flicked a stray stream back at her, made something low and dangerous coil in my chest.
She laughed, tilting her head back, hair damp and curling over the edge of the tub. God, she smelled like winter and mischief and something I couldn’t name, and it had me swearing softly under my breath.
“You know,” I said, leaning close enough that my lips hovered near the curve of her ear, “you’re completely absurd.”
She nudged me with her shoulder, playful but deliberate, a sly smirk teasing her lips. “I think you like that about me,” she murmured.
My pulse spiked; my chest tightened. I wanted to grab her, hold her, anchor myself to her heat, but I had to be patient. I wanted her to want this too. To know that giving in wasn’t just a surrender, it was a choice.
Her fingers grazed my thigh, light but enough to make me shift in place. My breath hitched. My mind spun. Every line I’d written, every story I’d crafted over decades, none of it had prepared me for this. For her. For how alive she made me feel.
“Stop teasing me,” I murmured, though my tone was soft, teasing right back. “I can’t—”
“You can,” she whispered. Her hand lingered, brushing against the swell of my thigh, daring me, promising me everything without a word.
I groaned softly, resting my forehead against the top of her shoulder.
The heat of the water, the closeness, the impossibility of her — it all wrapped around me, tight and sweet.
My hands itched to explore, to map the lines of her body with intent, to pull her impossibly close until we both forgot anything else existed.
She leaned into me, small, playful nudges of her hip, fingertips trailing over my arm, teasing me in ways I wasn’t sure I’d survive. And then she leaned back just slightly, breath warm on my chest. The ache in my chest grew, dangerous and delicious.
God, I was undone.
And I had no intention of pretending otherwise.