Chapter 36 ASH
ASH
Hands-on Documentation
Iknew the suite was nice from the hallway, but stepping inside feels like walking into a hush with good manners.
Floor-to-ceiling windows pull the city up to the glass—bands of headlights and neon sliding over polished oak floors.
Beyond sheer curtains, a private balcony waits, the door cracked just enough to let in a ribbon of cool night air and the far-off hush of Los Angeles breathing.
The room smells faintly of bergamot and rain—the kind of spa scent that makes even your bones unclench.
Everything begs to be touched. A low velvet sofa, deep plum. A pale rug thick enough to swallow footfalls. Brass lamps dimmed to a honey-soft glow. On a marble credenza, a champagne bucket sweats beside two flutes and a handwritten card in looping script: For Mr. the scent blooms all at once—lavender with something warm beneath it.
“Come here,” I say.
She steps close and turns without asking, trusting me, silk whispering as her dress shifts.
I start on her hairpins—one, then another—each silver comma placed on the counter like treasure.
With every pin I free, she exhales, like I’ve unhooked a thought she didn’t realize she was holding.
When the last comes loose, her hair spills warm into my hands.
I comb through it slowly, crown to ends, easing out the tangles the day left behind.
Steam curls around us, softening the edges, turning the vanity light to molten gold. Our rings catch it—two quick sparks when my hand brushes hers.
I step close and set my hands at her waist first, where the silk is warm from her, where I can feel the shape of her under the boning.
There’s a tiny hook above the zipper; my thumb finds it, my forefinger slips the loop free.
The sound that follows is ordinary and devastating—the soft sigh of a zipper giving way—and it feels like the whole suite exhales with us.
I work it down inch by inch, knuckles grazing satin, then the hotter smoothness of her skin where the fabric parts. Goosebumps rise in my wake.
“Turn?” I murmur.
She does, just enough for me to slide the straps off her shoulders. They fall, and I ease the bodice away with both hands, patient, reverent. The skirt pools at her ankles like cream, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
I look up because she’s looking at me.
“You’re staring,” she says, one corner of her mouth tugging up.
“I’m memorizing,” I rasp.
She stands by the tub—naked, hair loose, every line of her bare and unguarded—and my heart does a clumsy, grateful thing in my chest.
“Come here,” I say, and she does, straight into me.
I just hold her first, needing the weight of her against me.
Then I lean back, trace my knuckles from her temple down the line of her jaw to the hollow of her throat.
I kiss there, where her pulse jumps quick against my mouth.
Her hands find my shirt buttons, slow, deliberate, undoing them one by one.
I test the water with my wrist, nudge the tap a little warmer. “Okay?”
She dips her fingers to the surface, then nods. We step in together, and the water closes around us, rich and decadent.
“Lean forward?” I ask.
She does, gathering her hair over one shoulder. I wet a washcloth and run it over the slope of her shoulder where the strap lay all afternoon. Slow circles, faint steam rising from where the warm meets the cool of the room. My thumb follows with a second pass, softer.
I trade the cloth for my hands—soap lathered just enough to make things glide—and move down her arm.
Inside of elbow. Wrist. Each finger. I kiss her knuckles after I rinse them, my mouth finding the cool edge of metal and the familiar warmth of her.
She tips her head back against the porcelain edge and closes her eyes and I feel something in my chest open up like a window catching wind.
I move upward, my hands cupping her breast tenderly. Her skin is warm, her nipple already tight beneath my touch. I pause, my thumb brushing over it gently, feeling it harden further.
“Ash,” she breathes, her voice a mix of pleasure and vulnerability. I look up, meeting her gaze, and see the way her eyes shine with something raw and unguarded. I swallow, my throat tight, and continue downward, my fingers careful and reverent as I wash between her legs.
When I finally pull my hand away, she lets out a soft sigh, her body relaxing against the edge of the tub.
I rinse the soap from my hands, the water cool against my skin, and turn to face her.
Her eyes are half-lidded, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her cheeks flushed.
I reach for the soap again, handing it to her with a small smile.
“Your turn,” I say, my voice low, almost a challenge.
Olive takes the soap, her fingers brushing mine.
She starts with my arms, her hands gliding over my skin with the same slow, deliberate motions I used on her.
Her touch is gentle yet firm, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my arms and chest. I close my eyes, letting myself feel the weight of her hands, the way they seem to memorize every inch of me.
"You’re all muscle,” she teases, her fingers lingering on the ridges of my biceps before sliding down to my chest.
Her touch grows firmer there, palms pressing into my pecs as she washes me. When her fingers graze over my nipples, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. She smirks, eyes locking with mine, mischief sparking bright in them.
“Sensitive, huh?” she murmurs, her thumb circling one.
I force a shrug, though my pulse is pounding, my skin alive under her touch. “Not at all,” I say smoothly, though my voice betrays me. “This is just how I always breathe.”
She laughs—a soft, breathy sound that curls around me—before her hands drift lower, gliding over my stomach and then slipping between my legs.
Her touch is careful, her fingers wrapping around me with a gentleness that makes my breath hitch.
She strokes me slowly, the soap creating a slippery glide that sends shivers through me.
I let my head fall back, my eyes closing as I focus on the sensation.
Her touch is deliberate, purposeful, and I can feel myself hardening in her hand.
“Come on,” I say, voice lower than I mean it to be. “Let’s check out the balcony.”
I wrap her in one of those hotel towels that feel like stolen clouds, tuck the edge just under her arm, then drape another across my own shoulders. We pad barefoot through the suite, past the soft spill of city light on the floorboards, to the open balcony door.
We step out and it’s like we’re in our own private sanctuary. A high wall of greenery protects us from view.
“Mrs. Ryder,” I say, pulling her in for a hug and a kiss.
She grins. “I like the sound of that. Say it again?”
“At your service, Mrs. Ryder.”
Her laugh is quiet, wrecked, perfect. The kind that knocks out the last of my nerves.
I nudge her shoulder with mine. “You know,” I say, mock-thoughtful, “in earlier centuries they didn’t consider a marriage fully legal until it was, uh… consummated.” I feel my dick twitch at the thought of making it real with her.
She turns her head slowly, one eyebrow climbing like a cat up a bookshelf. “Is that so, dear husband?”
“Mm.” I keep a straight face I absolutely don’t deserve. “Very important historical precedent. Case law is clear: without… practical follow-through, the whole union could be tossed out on a technicality.”
She snorts. “You’re telling me our vows are hanging by a procedural thread.”
“I’m just saying I’d hate for anyone to question the legitimacy of this very respectable institution we entered into today.” I gesture between us, solemn as a judge. “We should probably file the necessary… paperwork.”
“By paperwork you mean—”
“Hands-on documentation,” I cough. “For the record.”
She laughs—head back, delighted, a sound that feels like a stamp of approval from the universe. “Objection: leading the witness.”
“Overruled,” I murmur, stepping closer. “Permission to approach.”
“Granted,” she says, soft and smug at once, and tips her face up to mine.
My lips find hers, desperate and hungry. My lips demand, my tongue teasing, and she responds, her mouth opening to me, her hands tangling in my hair.
With one swift motion, I tug her towel open and let it fall to the floor.
My hands roam lower, cupping her ass, pulling her tight against me. One of her legs hooks around my waist and I feel her slick heat against my cock, making me groan. “You’re fucking perfect,” I murmur against her neck, my lips trailing back up her skin.
My fingers slip down to her pussy, parting her folds.
She’s wet, so wet, her arousal a testament to her desire.
I groan, my fingers dipping into her heat, circling her clit, teasing her.
“Fuck, Olive,” I mutter, my voice thick with awe.
“You’re driving me insane.” I use one finger of my other hand and push inside, her walls clamping on me. “Can you take more, baby?”
Her hips buck against my hand, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “Yes. Please,” she begs. “I can take more.”
I smirk, pushing a second finger inside while keeping up a relentless rhythm with my thumb on her clit. Her breath comes in sharp gasps, her body trembling as she teeters on the edge. I keep fucking her with my fingers until she shatters, her cry echoing through the dark night.
I slip my fingers free—and with her eyes on me, I suck them clean, slow and deliberate. A wicked grin curves my mouth. “Delicious.”
“Shut up and fuck me,” she snaps, her voice laced with desperation.
I don’t hesitate, guiding myself to her entrance, teasing her with the tip. Her breath hitches, her hands gripping my shoulders tighter. “Now, Ash,” she demands, her voice desperate.
I thrust into her, filling her in one smooth motion, her tightness enveloping me like a glove. Olive gasps, her head falling back, her body arching against mine. “Fuck, you feel so good,” I groan, my voice hoarse.
She moans, her hips moving against mine, her body meeting my thrusts with equal urgency.
The balcony’s edge digs into my calves, the city’s lights a blur as I focus on the feel of her, the way she clenches around me, the way her breath catches with every movement.
“Ash,” she whispers, her voice breaking, “harder.”
I oblige, my thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate.
The sound of our bodies meeting fills the night, a primal rhythm that drowns out the city’s hum.
Olive’s nails dig into my shoulders, her legs tightening around my waist, her body a perfect fit against mine.
“Fuck, Olive,” I mutter, my voice thick with need. “You’re gonna make me—”
“Come with me,” she demands, her voice a plea. “Please, Ash, I need you to come with me.”
Her words send me over the edge, my control snapping. I thrust into her one last time, my body tensing as my release crashes over me, my cum pulsing deep inside her. Olive cries out, her body shuddering as her own orgasm hits her, her walls milking me, drawing every last drop from me.
Later—minutes, hours, I couldn’t say—we don’t step away so much as float.
“Mrs. Ryder,” I whisper once more, softer, reverent.
She taps my ring with hers. “Mr. Ryder,” she says, matching my tone, smiling against my mouth.
We linger a little longer, held by the night and the promise we didn’t need words to make. Then I gather the towels, thread my fingers through hers, and lead us inside while the city hums below.