Chapter 10 #2
I move slowly, dragging the suds across the wide span of his back, following the ridges of muscle, the slope of his shoulders. Soap and glitter swirl together, sliding down his skin in iridescent streaks.
He exhales, a soft sound that curls low in my stomach.
When he starts to turn, I spin around so fast I nearly lose my balance. My blush creeps down my neck, my chest, my entire body burning.
“You missed a spot,” he says behind me, his voice rougher now.
Before I can muster any syllables, he takes the cloth from my hand. His broad palm glides down my back, across my shoulders. I close my eyes as he works the suds over my skin, gentle but thorough, his fingertips catching in my damp hair.
Clay scrapes softly against the sand as he lifts one of the amphorae.
A moment later, cool water spills down my back in a steady, glistening stream.
It runs over my shoulders, between my breasts, down my stomach.
I gasp, the sound catching in my throat as his hand follows.
Rough fingertips trace the water’s path.
He brushes away the last of the suds, each touch leaving heat in its wake, a trail that lingers long after he’s moved on.
The rhythm of his movements becomes hypnotic, soft and careful in a way that makes my heart beat faster.
Then his fingers slip into my wet hair, combing through it with intimate tenderness that steals thought.
My body moves before my mind can catch up—a soft sigh, a small surrender—until I’m leaning back into him.
His warmth presses along my spine, the steady rise and fall of his chest syncing with my own uneven breaths.
He brushes my hair aside, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my neck. The air shifts as he leans closer. His breath ghosts over the damp curve of my shoulder, sending a shiver down my spine.
Every nerve in my body strains toward him, caught in that fragile place between impulse and restraint.
My pulse stutters in the hollow of my throat, begging for him to act first, because I can’t seem to move. His nearness is its own gravity, holding me in place.
It feels like the whole world has gone quiet, just the sounds of water pattering against sand and the faint rasp of his breath behind me.
Laughter ripples outside the tent. Then footsteps, closer and louder, as reality rushes back in.
Declan moves first, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around me. His hands linger a moment too long at my shoulders before he lets go, and the loss of his touch leaves the air feeling colder.
“Th-thank you,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
When I turn, his own towel is slung low around his hips. Droplets slide down from his temple, tracing the line of his jaw. I reach up and catch one with the edge of my towel. The brief touch sparks through me like static before I drop my hand.
I clear my throat, trying to sound casual and failing completely. “We should, um, go back to the tent. Get some sleep.”
Neither of us says anything as we walk back to the tent, robes clinging to our damp skin, the night air cool and heavy around us. The camp hums softly around us, but it all feels far away, muted by the pulse drumming in my ears.
Inside, my gaze drifts to the single bed waiting for us, its embroidered cushions piled high.
“You take it,” Declan says as he crosses to the trunk and pulls out a pair of loose, harem-style pants. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I busy myself fluffing the pillows, rearranging them into neat rows, pretending that the single king-sized bed doesn’t suddenly feel too small.
Declan joins me, gathering the pillows I threw at him earlier.
“You don’t have to—” I start, then meet his gaze.
He’s looking at me with an intensity that feels like a touch. Heat blooms low in my stomach as his eyes trace the bare stretches of skin peeking out from my robe.
“I do,” he says softly. He drags one of the blankets off the bed and lowers himself onto the rug.
When he settles on the ground, long body stretched across the floor, I move to the trunk and rummage through the items until I find a red slip threaded with gold embroidery. I duck behind the screen and put it on before blowing out the candles and crawling into bed.
Below, close enough to touch if I only reached down, I can hear Declan shift—cloth rustling, the slow exhale as he settles in.
For a long time, I lie there staring at the tent ceiling, pulse still uneven from the stage, from the bathhouse, from him.
I turn onto my side and slip a hand beneath the pillow. My fingers find the card. Its edges are warm against my skin.
The wheel is preparing to turn. Remember, or it shall not be gentle.
“For what it’s worth,” Declan says, voice breaking through the silence, “if I had to be trapped in another world with someone, I’m glad it’s you. I couldn’t imagine a better Twilight partner.”
Tension loosens inside me. The ache of the day, the fear, the strangeness, all of it dissipates into a feeling close to comfort.
“Night, Declan.”
“Good night, Amanda.”