23. Whispers of Tomorrow
Whispers of Tomorrow
Naomi
I lean closer to the notebook balanced on my crossed legs, chewing absently on the end of my pen as I review equipment costs. Industrial mixers don’t come cheap . I circle a particularly daunting figure. But if I’m really going to do this—really going to open my own bakery—I need to do it right.
A soft mrrp draws my attention to Powder, who lifts her head from her sunlit perch to set those striking blue eyes on me.
“What do you think, pretty girl?” I ask. “Think Columbus is ready for another bakery?”
Powder blinks slowly at me before returning to her nap, satisfied I’ve acknowledged her input. I smile at her casual dismissal. These quiet moments with her—just woman and cat, surrounded by dreams and possibilities—feel precious after years of walking on eggshells.
It’s strange how quickly life changes. Just months ago, I was a wife, trapped in a marriage where every word, every gesture, every breath was monitored and controlled. Now here I sit, free to dream and plan, supported by a man who encourages rather than constrains.
The distant rumble of a truck approaching pulls my attention away from my notes. Micah must be back from his morning trip to get more groceries.
The thought of him sends a flutter through my stomach. These new feelings still surprise me sometimes, though they’ve become increasingly familiar during our weeks together in this cabin.
I remain seated on the floor, surrounded by my planning materials, knowing he likes finding me this way. The good girl kneeling before him. His darkened eyes always betray just how much the position affects him.
The cabin door opens, admitting a gust of crisp winter air along with Micah’s imposing frame.
He juggles grocery bags while stomping snow from his boots, somehow managing to look both domestic and dangerous in his well-worn jeans and heavy coat.
My heart does that funny little skip it always does when I see him—part recognition, part desire, part something deeper.
Something becoming increasingly impossible to ignore.
“Hi.” The word comes out soft, almost shy despite our intimacy. Some habits die hard, I suppose. Years of measuring every interaction, every response, leave marks that fade slowly.
Micah’s dark eyes find mine immediately, his expression softening in that way reserved solely for me. He sets the bags down carefully before approaching, each deliberate step making my pulse quicken. When he reaches me, one large hand cups my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
“Hello, lovely.” His deep voice rumbles through me like distant thunder. “Working hard on those plans?”
The praise in his tone makes pleases me. “Yes, sir.” The honorific slips out naturally now, at least in private moments like this. It feels right.
His thumb traces my bottom lip, the callused pad catching on sensitive skin.
“Such a good girl.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “Always so focused, so determined.”
The words make me shiver. Micah notices—he always notices—and rewards me with a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens into something more heated. His hand slides from my chin to cup the back of my head, fingers tangling in escaped curls as he claims my mouth with increasing intensity.
When we finally separate, his eyes have darkened further with desire. But practicality wins out—the groceries need attention, and my planning session deserves proper focus.
Before I get back to my planning though, I help him with the unpacking. We move together in the small kitchen with practiced coordination, a dance we’ve perfected over these weeks of shared space.
“I was thinking,” Micah says as he hands me items to put away, “we might head out for a few hours this afternoon. That resort about twenty minutes north has a decent restaurant, and there’s a market nearby that might interest you.”
The suggestion catches me off guard, making me fumble the can of tomatoes he just passed. He catches it easily, his reflexes as sharp as ever.
“Really?” I try to keep the eagerness from my voice, but it sneaks through anyway. “You think it’s safe since the attack?”
“I wouldn’t suggest it otherwise. We took care of that threat.” His tone carries absolute certainty. “Plus, you deserve to get out more. The market might inspire ideas for your bakery.”
The thoughtfulness behind his suggestion—combining a treat with practical research—fills me with emotion.
This man, who navigates Columbus’s criminal underworld with legendary capability, has put genuine consideration into helping me achieve my dreams. It’s so far from Lucas’s controlling dismissal of my ambitions tears well in my eyes.
It makes me wonder how Lucas ever came from the man before me. The man who’s stealing so much more than just my heart.
Steam rises from the shower, fogging the cabin’s windows and filling the space with humid warmth. I stand under the hot spray, careful not to get my hair wet. It’s knotted in a bun on top of my head, but I’m still careful to keep the water away.
I grab the washcloth and lather it up with soap then scrub it over my chest. I examine the fading scars below my ribs where one of Lucas’s more brutal attacks left its mark.
It’s fading, slowly erasing the physical evidence of his attempts to control me.
Soon my body will bear minimal traces of his violence, though the mental scars may take longer to fade.
The shower curtain slides open, bringing a rush of cooler air.
I turn to glance over my shoulder as I wash the soap away and find Micah filling the space. His dark eyes roam over my wet skin with raw hunger, drinking in every curve and hollow. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cool air.
“Lovely.” The word rumbles out. “Every inch of you is perfect.” His eyes linger on the water droplets trailing down my breasts, following their path with obvious appreciation.
Even after these weeks together, his praise still affects me deeply. Perhaps because I know he means every word.
“The way the water slides down your skin…” Micah’s voice grows husky. “Makes me want to trace every drop with my tongue.”
My breath catches. His raw desire makes my knees weak. I grip the wall for support as his heated gaze maps my body. Micah’s appreciation makes me feel beautiful, powerful.
He steps closer to the shower, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. “You about done in here, lovely? As much as I enjoy the view, we should head out so we have plenty of time to eat and go to the market before it closes.”
The normalcy of his question—discussing lunch plans while looking at me like he wants to devour me—makes me smile. This is what safety feels like. This is what it means to be desired by someone who sees me as a person, not a possession.
“Just finishing up.” I turn off the water. When I reach for my towel, he stops me.
Micah holds the towel just out of reach, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Let me take care of you. Step out.”
My skin prickles with goosebumps as I step from the shower’s warmth. He wraps the fluffy towel around my shoulders, using it to draw me closer. The soft terrycloth sweeps across my skin in gentle strokes as his large hands work methodically.
He starts at my shoulders, the towel moving in slow circles. His breath fans against my neck as he leans close, pressing a kiss just below my ear. A small gasp escapes me when his lips trail down to the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder.
The towel glides lower, over my breasts, my stomach. His touch is reverent yet teasing. Each sweep of fabric is followed by the warmth of his mouth, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. My breath comes faster as his hands and lips work in tandem.
He kneels to dry my legs, his beard scratching deliciously against my inner thigh.
The towel’s soft friction combined with the occasional brush of his lips has me trembling.
My fingers tangle in his hair as he works his way back up my body, the towel now forgotten as his mouth claims more territory.
When he finally stands, my skin is dry but I’m burning up inside. His dark eyes meet mine, filled with wicked promise.
“There now,” he says, “all taken care of.”
“Thank you,” I say but it comes out all breathy and needy. This man is doing a number on me. Is this part of being my Dom? Taking care of me in such a sensual and intimate way?
“Let me dress you today.”
My pulse quickens. This is new territory for us, though the idea sends heat pooling low in my belly.
“You want to pick out my clothes?” I ask, voice breathless.
A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Not just pick them out. I want to dress you myself. Every piece.”
Oh.
He steps back, taking the towel with him. I’m completely bare and vulnerable but the way he looks at me makes me feel like a queen.
“So beautiful.” His thumb brushes a droplet from my collarbone. “My good girl, letting me take care of you like this.”
His genuine appreciation feels like cool water on parched earth. My body responds instinctively, standing proudly in front of him.
He leads me to stand before the full-length mirror mounted on the wall beside the jacuzzi tub.
I watch in the mirror as Micah reaches up to my hair, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they work the elastic band free from my messy bun.
The strands tumble down, and he carefully unwinds them, spreading the waves across my shoulders.
His fingers thread through my hair, working out any small tangles with infinite patience.
No one has played with my hair like this since I was a child. Lucas certainly never showed this kind of tender attention—he only grabbed my hair to hurt me. But Micah’s touch is different. Reverent.