Raven Chapter 17 Hedonism and Household Appliances 200 #4
Above the tub, taking up most of the wall behind it, there's a massive window.
Frosted glass, so the city lights blur into soft, glowing halos.
No details. Just the suggestion of a world outside, muted and distant.
Perfect for when you want to feel like you're floating above everything instead of drowning in it.
A wooden tray is laid across the tub's width, creating a little table. On it rests a slice of what I’m assuming is tiramisu, a tall glass of water, and a single, flickering candle. Just beside the tub, a sleek, teardrop-shaped device puffs out scented steam, filling the air with a calming haze.
A sudden, tight warmth blooms in my chest that has nothing to do with the water. I walk around and touch everything I can while soaking it all in.
Dre didn't just think of the bath; he thought of the ache in my back, the chill of the air.
A plush bath pillow for support, a warmed towel for the moment I emerge.
It's this—the quiet, meticulous care—that threatens to shatter me.
I need to thank him. Thoroughly. Primal-ly.
In a way that leaves no question about how much I appreciate him. .
Stars, the man deserves a monument. Or my mouth. Preferably both.
Is it bad to hope I don’t have a gag reflex? Because this man deserves more than just my mouth, he deserves my throat.
No matter, even if I have a gag reflex I’m going to push through and give it to him anyway. The cozy luxury in front of me is too good not to. I should also probably stop staring at it.
Excitedly, I discard my clothes and pad over the warm tile to the tub.
I look down at my feet, then at the tub, and figure—with my track record—I should probably follow that one camp counselor's advice.
The one who was so passionate about canoe safety, whose lesson I picked up while haunting a summer camp, trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.
Three points of contact at all times.
Luckily, the advice was solid. I manage to get both feet in without falling and cracking my head open or some other equally final accident.
Lowering myself the rest of the way in, the heat doesn't simply hit me; it consumes me in the best way possible. It’s a full-body embrace, a weightless silence that eats the entire world and its problems for breakfast. The flower petals cling to my skin like soft, gentle kisses.
I sink until the water laps at my chin, and the last shred of tension in my muscles just…
nopes right out of existence. This is more than floating; it’s like the water itself is holding me together.
The fairy lights glimmer beneath the surface, making my legs look like they're made of liquid gold.
I close my eyes. The only sounds are my own breath and the distant, magical hum of the teardrop spewing wonderful smelling steam. This isn't just a sensation. It’s a miracle. For the first time since I became solid, my body isn't a clumsy, unfamiliar vessel. It just feels like me.
If I thought the shower was otherworldly, this has dropped me in the Afterlife Realm. Specifically, the Bright Lands.
I'm dead. Don't check my pulse. Don't speak. Don't even breathe too loud.
And this was all before I tried the tiramisu.
After one bite of that creamy heaven, I decide that if the gods even look at this tub, this dessert, or my perfect, thoughtful men with anything but love and support, they will meet the apparent atomic bomb living inside of me.
I have claimed them. I will throw hands with any deity who tries to take them from me.
The warmth of the water, the lingering taste of tiramisu on my tongue, the sheer, unadulterated bliss of it all.
.. it coalesces into a single, throbbing point of need low in my belly.
My hands drift lazily through the water, every ripple pulling me deeper into the bath’s embrace.
My mind slips away, picturing Dre behind me, his palms gliding over my skin, coaxing sensations I’ve only imagined in my wildest dreams.
The thought of him—of all of them—sets my pulse racing. Without thinking, my fingers brush my nipples; the sudden jolt makes me gasp. A restless hum builds under my skin as I trace lower, down the curve of my stomach. The thought is a simple, primal conclusion: I want to feel more.
My hand slides through the water with a purpose I've only ever fantasized about. When my fingers find the spot, the sensation is so sharp, so immediate, it steals my breath. This isn't like the ghost of a touch I used to imagine. This is real. This is mine.
Turns out, discovering the hidden button of pleasures is way better than discovering the hidden button of horrors that lives in my elbow. Who knew?
I let my fingers wander, and every nerve sings.
Forrest's voice echoes in my head—those clipped, commanding orders I want to hear in more private settings.
I picture Anik cornering me, pinning me, claiming me with that raw hunger in his eyes.
Kieran's wicked smirk flashes just before his mouth descends.
And Em—those elegant fingers circling my throat, holding me steady while he watches.
Then Dre. I imagine him lifting me from the water, laying me down, sliding into me slow and deep until we're both a mess of trembling limbs and quiet sighs.
The climax hits faster than I expect. White-hot. Gasping. Boneless. Undone.
I don’t even try to hide what’s happening in here. What’s the point?
If anyone expected me to tap out halfway down this hedonistic highway, they severely overestimated my self-control and underestimated my commitment to sensory bliss. The bath was a revelation, the tiramisu was a religious experience, and that orgasm? That was the grand finale.
I may just dissolve into this water now, a perfectly happy, thoroughly ruined woman. My only regret is that I can’t tell my past, incorporeal self to hold on, because this is what being real is for.
Or at least, partially.
It’s true, I’ve waited decades for this kind of pleasure—for any pleasure.
But I’ve learned, in my short time here, that life is more than just a series of sensations.
Even the pain has meaning, a depth I could never have understood as a ghost. And now that I’ve had a taste?
I want it all. The bliss, the agony, the whole messy, brilliant, fucking buffet.
And yet.
There's a rule buried under all the want-take-enjoy chaos. I never gave it much thought because it was for after. After I became real. After any of this was possible. And now "after" is here, and the rule is suddenly very, very loud.
Until that balance is met—until they’ve fallen as hard as I have—physical intimacy would be a one-sided contract. For me, it would be everything. For them, it could just be… Tuesday. And I have never been a fan of an unbalanced emotional power dynamic.
This new experience has me vowing to redouble my efforts. Alone, the sensation was toe-curling, a freefall into oblivion where you don't care about the landing, only the dizzying rush of the fall. It was everything I imagined, yet nothing like I expected.
And that was all while I was alone.
Gods help me, I can’t even fathom what it would be like to fall with someone else.