Chapter 18 Jessica
JESSICA
The bathtub in the Negrorio guest bathroom is approximately the size of a small swimming pool.
I'm not exaggerating. The thing could comfortably fit three people, maybe four if they were friendly about it.
It has jets. And a sloped back designed for maximum soaking comfort.
And a little shelf built into the side that's perfect for holding a glass of wine or, in my case, a mug of chamomile tea because I'm trying to be responsible.
I sink deeper into the bubbles and let the hot water work on muscles I didn't know I had until I spent two days destroying Carlos's job site and three days reorganizing Pedro's filing system. Again. Properly this time.
Working at the clinic has gotten better since the wetness exam disaster.
I haven't sent any accidental sex texts in seventy-two hours, which feels like a personal record.
I can file patient records alphabetically like a functioning adult.
And most importantly, Pedro has developed this habit of finding me in the supply closet during lunch breaks, locking the door, and dropping to his knees while I bite down on my hand to keep from screaming his name loud enough for the whole clinic to hear.
That happened yesterday. And the day before. My thighs are still pleasantly sore from the way they clamped around his head when I came so hard I saw stars.
So yes. Working with Pedro is definitely getting better. In so many ways.
A knock on the bathroom door makes me jump, water sloshing over the side.
"Jess?" Carlos's voice, muffled through the wood. "Dinner's in twenty. Sergio made pot roast."
I look at the door. At the unlocked handle. At the steam curling through the air.
At the decision I'm about to make.
"Door's open," I hear myself say.
Silence. Long enough that I think maybe he didn't hear me. Long enough that I start to second-guess myself.
Then the door opens.
Carlos steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click. His eyes find me in the tub, surrounded by bubbles, and something hot and hungry flashes across his face before he banks it.
"Hi." My voice comes out breathier than I want.
"Hi yourself." He leans against the counter, arms crossed, but his knuckles are white. Tension radiates off him. "You sure about this?"
"About what?"
"Inviting me into the bathroom while you're naked in a tub." His voice has gone rough. Deep. "Because I'm trying real hard to be a gentleman here, Jess, and you're not making it easy."
I sink a little lower in the bubbles. My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it. "My shoulders hurt. From carrying lumber yesterday. I thought maybe you could help."
"Help." He repeats the word slowly. Testing it. "With your shoulders."
"If you want."
He pushes off the counter. Moves toward the tub with deliberate steps. Drops to his knees beside it, and suddenly his face is level with mine, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes.
"If I put my hands on you," he says quietly, "I'm not gonna want to stop at your shoulders."
"Then don't stop."
His jaw tightens. "You're killing me."
"Good."
A rough laugh escapes him. "Turn around. Let me see what we're working with."
I shift in the tub, presenting him with my back. Water sloshes. Bubbles slide down my shoulders. I hear him suck in a breath.
"Jesus, Jess. You're covered in bruises."
"Lumber is heavy."
"You should've told me. I would've carried more." His hands hover over my shoulders. I can feel the heat of them even without contact. "This okay?"
"Yes."
His palms settle on my shoulders and I nearly moan at the contact. His hands are rough with calluses, warm and strong, and when he starts to knead the knotted muscles, I have to bite my lip to keep quiet.
"Too hard?" he asks.
"No. Perfect. Don't stop."
He works his thumbs into the tight spots along my shoulder blades. Slow circles. Firm pressure. The kind of touch that hurts in the best way, pain and relief mixing until I can't tell the difference.
"You're so tense," he murmurs. His breath ghosts across my wet skin. "When's the last time someone took care of you?"
"I don't know." My voice comes out small. Honest. "A long time."
His hands pause. Then resume with even more care. "That's gonna change."
He works his way down my spine. Finding every sore spot, every place where I'm holding tension I didn't know existed. The water laps against the sides of the tub. Steam rises. His scent wraps around me, sandalwood and sawdust mixing with the floral soap until I'm dizzy with it.
When his hands slide to my sides, fingers splaying across my ribs, I stop breathing.
"Still okay?" His voice has gone lower. Rougher.
"Yes."
His thumbs stroke along the curve of my waist. Up. Down. Not quite touching my breasts but close enough that my nipples tighten in anticipation. My whole body is on high alert, every nerve ending screaming for more.
"Jess." My name sounds wrecked on his lips. "Tell me what you want."
"Touch me." The words spill out before I can stop them. "Please. I need you to touch me."
He groans. The sound goes straight between my legs. "Where?"
"Everywhere."
His hands slide higher. Cup my breasts through the water and bubbles. His palms are rough against my sensitive skin and I arch into the contact with a gasp.
"Like this?"
"Yes. God, yes."
He rolls my nipples between his fingers. Gentle at first, then harder when I whimper and press back against his hands. The water sloshes. Bubbles slide down my body. I'm completely exposed now, the water too disturbed to hide anything, and I don't care.
One of his hands slides lower. Down my stomach. Pausing at my hip.
"Can I?"
"Please."
His fingers find me already wet, already ready, and when he strokes through my folds, I cry out.
His fingers circle my clit with maddening slowness. Teasing. Learning. Finding the rhythm that makes my hips buck and my breath catch.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Show me what you like. Show me what makes you feel good."
I'm completely at his mercy. One hand on my breast, the other between my legs, his mouth trailing kisses along my neck and shoulder. The water is cooling but I'm burning up, heat pooling low in my belly, building with every stroke of his fingers.
When he slides two fingers inside me, I almost come right then.
"Carlos." His name is a broken plea.
"I know, baby. I've got you." He pumps his fingers slowly, curling them to hit that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. "You're so perfect. So responsive. Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this? How many times I've imagined you just like this?"
"Tell me." I'm rocking against his hand now, desperate and uncoordinated.
"Every night." His teeth graze my shoulder. "Every single night since you came back. I'd lie in bed and think about you. About touching you. Tasting you. Making you come so hard you forget your own name."
His thumb finds my clit. Circles it in time with his fingers thrusting inside me. The dual sensation is overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.
"I'm close." The words come out strangled. "Carlos, I'm so close."
"Then come for me." His voice is pure command. Pure alpha. "Come for me, Jess. Let me feel it."
He increases the pressure. Speeds up his rhythm. His other hand pinches my nipple just hard enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain.
I shatter.
My orgasm crashes over me in waves, stealing my breath, my voice, my ability to think. I'm distantly aware that I'm crying out, that water is sloshing over the side of the tub, that Carlos is murmuring praise against my neck while working me through every aftershock.
When I finally go limp, boneless and satisfied, he gentles his touch. Withdraws his fingers slowly. Wraps his arms around me from behind and holds me while my breathing evens out.
"You okay?" His voice is soft. Tender.
I nod. Don't trust myself to speak yet.
He presses a kiss to my temple. "Good girl."
The words send another shiver through me even though I just came.
My phone buzzes on the bath shelf. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
Carlos reaches for it, glances at the screen, and laughs. "Your mom's texting you. A lot. Something about a blowtorch?"
Reality crashes back. I grab the phone from his hand.
Mom: Emergency! Ricardo's brother Eduardo showed up. He's a TV chef. He makes things flambe. It was very impressive and slightly dangerous. Auntie Linda wants to take lessons. I told her that we can't afford new eyebrows.
I stare at my phone.
Mom: Also Miguel's mother invited us to dinner. She makes tamales. From scratch. I cried. Aunt Linda ate seven. She's currently in a food coma on the balcony.
Another message appears.
Mom: How are things with the Negrorio boys? Have you kissed any of them yet? Patricia told me you're working at the clinic. She says you sent some interesting text messages. She sent me screenshots.
Oh God.
Me: Mom, I can explain.
Mom: I'm not judging! "Wetness exam" is very forward-thinking. Good for you!
Me: It was Autocorrect.
Mom: Sure it was, honey. ?? Anyway, Mexico has changed Aunt Linda.
Me: She’s not the only one.
Mom: This is the most fun I've had in years! Gotta go, Eduardo is teaching us to make flan. Pray for us! Hasta Adios! ??????
I drop my phone back on the shelf and sink deeper into the now-lukewarm water.
"Your mom sounds like she’s really enjoying it there," Carlos says. He's still kneeling beside the tub, still close enough that I can feel his body heat.
"She's learning to use a blowtorch in Mexico while I'm having orgasms in bathtubs, and in doctor clinics. My life has officially lost all sense of normalcy."
He grins. "I don't know. Seems pretty normal to me."
"You have a very skewed sense of normal."
"Maybe." He stands, offers me his hand. "Come on. Get out before you turn into a prune. Dinner's ready."
I take his hand and let him help me stand. Water streams down my body. Bubbles slide off my skin. I'm completely naked in front of him and I should probably be embarrassed, but the way he's looking at me makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.
He wraps a towel around me. Tucks it in at my chest with careful fingers. Brushes a wet strand of hair behind my ear.
"Get dressed," he says quietly. "Come downstairs. Eat dinner with us."
"And then what?"
His smile is slow. Dangerous. Full of promise. “Then we'll see what happens."
He leaves, closing the door behind him.
I stand there dripping on the bath mat, heart still racing, body still humming, wondering when exactly I lost control of this situation.
Probably the moment I climbed out that window.
Definitely the moment I walked through their door.
I could get used to this.
The thought hits me as I'm drying off, and it terrifies me more than anything else that's happened in the past week. Because getting used to this means wanting to stay. And wanting to stay means risking everything I've spent the last six years running from.
I drain the tub and wrap myself in the towel more securely. The mirror is fogged with steam. I wipe a clear spot and stare at my reflection.
Everything about me feels different right now. I'm not the hollow shell of a runaway bride anymore. I feel alive. More alive than I have in years.
I think about four alphas downstairs, making dinner, waiting for me. I think about Callum arriving Friday, expecting me to be "ready" for him as if I'm a package to be collected. I think about my heat, building slowly in my blood, changing everything I thought I knew about myself.
I think about the way Carlos said "good girl" and how it made me feel things I'm not ready to examine.
I retreat to my room to get dressed. Pull on jeans and a soft sweater that's technically mine but smells like cedar and smoke because Sergio did laundry yesterday and everything got mixed together.
Four alphas. One omega. A heat that's coming whether I'm ready or not.
This is either going to be a disaster or the best decision of my life.
I'm starting to think I want it to be both.