Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
OZZY
The next morning comes soft and slow, sunlight filtering through the slats in the blinds like it’s trying not to disturb us.
I wake before she does, and for a long minute I just lie there, letting the weight of her settle against me.
Salem’s curled into my side, one leg hooked over mine, her cheek pressed to my chest. Her breathing is deep, even, the kind of sleep that only comes after your body’s been completely wrung out.
I can still smell us on her skin: salt, sex, the faint sweetness of her arousal that hasn’t quite faded even after we passed out tangled together.
My arm’s numb where it’s pinned under her shoulders, but I don’t move.
I watch the slow rise and fall of her ribs, the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks every few breaths like she’s dreaming something gentle.
Last night was filthy—raw, desperate, the kind of fucking that leaves marks and memories—but right now she looks fragile in the best way.
Like something precious I’m allowed to hold.
I shift carefully, easing my arm free without waking her, and slide out of bed. She makes a small, protesting sound in her sleep, hand reaching for the empty space I leave behind. It twists something in my chest. I lean down, brush my lips across her temple, and whisper, “Be right back, baby.”
The bathroom is still steamy from the shower we took at 2 a.m. when we finally peeled ourselves off each other long enough to rinse the sweat and cum from our skin.
I turn on the faucet over the deep clawfoot tub, let the water run hot while I dig through the cabinet looking for anything I can use to take care of her: Epsom salts, lavender oil, a soft washcloth.
There’s also a bottle of bodywash. I pour a generous handful of salts into the rising water, watch them dissolve, then add a few drops of oil.
When the tub’s half full I test the temperature with my wrist. Perfect. Not scalding, but warm enough to ease the ache I know she’s carrying today. I turn off the tap, light the single candle on the windowsill—nothing dramatic, just enough flicker to soften the morning light—and go back for her.
She’s still asleep when I return to the bedroom, sheets twisted around her hips, one breast bare, the faint purple bloom of a hickey I left on the swell of it catching the light. My throat tightens. I did that. I marked her. And she let me. She wanted it.
I slide my arms under her—one behind her shoulders, one under her knees—and lift her like she weighs nothing. She stirs, eyes fluttering open, hazy and soft.
“Ozzy?” Her voice is thick with sleep, raspy from all the moaning and begging she did last night.
“Morning, beautiful.” I kiss the corner of her mouth. “Got something for you.”
She nestles into my chest without protest, arms looping loosely around my neck. “You’re naked.”
“So are you.”
She hums, a sleepy little sound that vibrates against my skin. “Feels nice.”
I carry her into the bathroom, lower her carefully into the tub. The water laps around her thighs, then her waist as she sinks down. A long, contented sigh escapes her lips the second the heat hits her sore muscles.
“Ohhh God,” she breathes, head tipping back against the rolled edge. “That’s perfect.”
I kneel beside the tub, elbows on the rim, and just watch her for a minute.
The way the water turns her skin pink, the way droplets cling to her collarbones, the slow blink of her lashes as the warmth seeps in.
She looks like she’s melting. There’s tension bleeding out of her shoulders, and out of the faint lines that were etched around her eyes yesterday.
I reach for the washcloth, soak it, wring it just enough so it doesn’t drip everywhere, then add a squeeze of body wash.
The scent rises—clean cotton and something faintly sweet.
I start at her shoulders, dragging the cloth in slow, deliberate circles.
Her skin is warm, slick under the suds. I work down her arms, lifting each one gently, washing between her fingers, over the delicate insides of her wrists where her pulse flutters slow and steady.
She watches me through half-closed eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.” I press my lips to the inside of her wrist, right over that pulse. “Let me take care of you.”
Her smile is small and soft. “You always do.”
I move to her chest next. I make sure I’m careful with her.
The cloth glides over the curve of her breasts, around the sensitive undersides, across nipples that pebble at the lightest touch even though we’re not chasing heat right now.
She arches just a fraction, a quiet inhale, but I don’t linger.
This isn’t about starting anything. It’s about soothing.
About reminding her body that touch can be gentle, too.
I wash her stomach, the faint red marks my fingers left on her hips yesterday. I trace each one with the cloth, then with my thumb, pressing lightly like I can erase them with care instead of force. She sighs again, deeper this time.
“Turn for me, baby.”
She shifts, presenting her back. I pour more soap onto the cloth, work it between her shoulder blades, and down the elegant line of her spine.
Every vertebra gets its own slow pass. When I reach the small of her back I pause, thumbs digging gently into the knots there.
It’s nothing aggressive, just enough pressure to make her moan low in her throat.
“Right there,” she murmurs. “God, yes.”
I keep going, kneading until the tension gives, then rinse the cloth and wipe away the suds.
Her skin glows under the water now, flushed and smooth.
I wash the backs of her thighs, the calves, lift one foot at a time to clean between her toes.
She giggles when I brush the arch, and the sound is so light it makes my chest ache.
When I’m done with her legs I set the cloth aside and cup water in my hands, letting it pour over her shoulders, watching it run in rivulets down her back, her arms, her breasts. She closes her eyes, tips her head back so the water slicks her hair away from her face.
I lean in, and kiss the damp curve of her neck. “Feel better?”
“Mmm. Like I’m floating.”
“Good.” I reach for the shampoo, and work it into her hair. My fingers massage her scalp in slow circles, thumbs pressing at her temples, and behind her ears. She melts further, a quiet moan slipping out.
“You’re too good at this,” she whispers.
“Only for you.”
I rinse her hair carefully, shielding her eyes with one hand while I pour cup after cup of water over her head until every trace of soap is gone.
Then conditioner with the same slow massage, letting it sit while I wash her face with a fresh cloth.
I trace her cheekbones, her jaw, the soft bow of her upper lip.
When I’m done I tilt her chin up and kiss her—slow, deep, unhurried.
No tongue, just lips moving together like we have all the time in the world.
Once the water turns cold, I help her out of the tub, wrapping her in the biggest towel we have, and I rub her arms and back until she stops shivering.
Then I carry her back to the bedroom, and set her in the chair next to the bed as I change the sheets on the bed.
She watches me move around the room: changing the sheets, pulling on boxers, grabbing clean clothes for her, bringing a glass of water and a small plate of fruit I cut yesterday.
She’s moved to the bed, and I sit on the edge to feed her a strawberry. She takes it from my fingers with her lips, deliberate, teasing just enough to make me smile.
“Eat,” I tell her. “You need it after last night.”
She chews slowly, eyes on mine. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Get used to it.”
When she’s finished I pull the towel away, help her into soft cotton panties and one of my T-shirts—the gray one she loves because it smells like me.
Then I climb in beside her, pull her back against my chest, arms wrapped around her waist. My hand rests flat on her stomach, thumb stroking lazy circles over the fabric.
She sighs. “This is nice.”
“Yeah.” I press my face into her damp hair, and breathe her in. “This is everything.”
We stay like that for a long time. The world outside can wait another hour. Another day. Right now there’s only her heartbeat against my palm, the slow rhythm of her breathing, the way her fingers lace through mine and hold on like she never wants to let go.
I kiss the back of her neck, soft and lingering.
“Rest, baby,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
And for once, she believes me.
She falls asleep again in my arms, safe and cared for.
I stay awake a little longer, just holding her, memorizing the feel of her against me. Because no matter what comes next—van or no van, threat or no threat—this is what I fight for.
This quiet.
This woman.
This life we’re building one careful, sensual, reverent moment at a time.