Chapter 5
I woke in my own bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, the echo of Virgil’s command still vibrating in my bones.
My pleasure defines him. The thought was a cold stone in my gut, even as my body remembered the heat.
The room was dark, the usual gloom of Black Hollow pressing in.
I got up, my bare feet silent on the floorboards, and went to the door.
I needed water, maybe just to walk, to shake the feeling of his arms around me.
I opened the door, and the corridor was wrong.
It wasn’t the narrow, wood-paneled hallway I’d come to expect.
It was wider, the walls clad in dark, veined marble.
The air was different—thick, humid, and carrying the scent of minerals and something spicy like myrrh.
A low, golden light glowed from ahead. My heart started a slow, heavy thud against my ribs.
I followed it. I had to. The house was showing me something.
The corridor opened into a chamber that stole the air from my lungs.
It was a bath, straight out of some decadent ancient dream.
The ceiling was vaulted, lost in shadows, but braziers and clusters of candles cast a shimmering light over a sunken pool that took up most of the space.
Steam rose from the water’s surface in lazy curls.
The sound of a single, steady drip echoed from the far side—tap…
tap… tap—a rhythmic counterpoint to the sudden rush of blood in my ears.
And he was there. Virgil was in the pool, his back against the far edge.
The water came up to the middle of his chest. He was bare, the hard planes of his torso slick and gleaming in the firelight.
His dark hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead.
He wasn’t looking at me, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames of a brazier nearby, but I knew he was aware of me.
He had to be. The house had brought me here for him.
My mouth went dry. The sight of him, so physically imposing and yet part of this impossible room, triggered a flush that started deep in my belly and spread outward.
This wasn’t the shadow-man from the library or the intense lover from the velvet room.
This was something else. An offering. An invitation.
I hesitated at the top of the shallow steps leading into the water.
Modesty was a stupid, thin cloak here. I was naked under my sleep shirt, and he’d seen every inch of me already.
But this felt different. Deliberate. The air was heavy with a waiting silence.
As if sensing my conflict, the steam seemed to thin.
A faint chill touched the air, raising goosebumps on my arms. The house, amplifying my hesitation.
Virgil’s eyes slid to me then. He didn’t speak.
Didn’t gesture. He just watched, his expression unreadable, his body a sculpture of relaxed power in the water.
The water around him shimmered, inviting.
Screw it. I pulled the sleep shirt over my head and let it fall to the mosaic floor.
The cool air kissed my skin, tightening my nipples.
I took the first step down. The heat of the water was immediate and exquisite, soaking into my ankles, my calves, a luxurious contrast to the chill.
I descended until I was submerged to my shoulders, the heat a balm on my aching muscles.
The pool was deep; my feet didn’t touch the bottom.
I stood there, clinging to the edge, putting a few yards of steaming water between us.
He hadn’t moved. Then he did. He pushed off the wall with a smooth, effortless motion and swam toward me.
Not with urgency, but with a slow, predatory grace that made my pulse hammer in my throat.
The water rippled around him. He stopped when his legs brushed mine under the surface, a fleeting, electric contact.
Still, he said nothing. He reached for a clay jar on the submerged ledge beside us, dipping his hand in.
It came out covered in a slick, pale soap that smelled of cedar and lavender.
He moved closer, his chest just inches from mine.
The heat of him, even through the water, was a tangible force.
His soapy hands came up and settled on my shoulders.
I flinched, a tiny, involuntary jump. His grip tightened, just for a second, holding me in place.
“Be still,” he murmured, his voice low and rough from the steam.
His hands began to move, sliding over the curve of my shoulders, down my upper arms. The friction was slow, deliberate.
He was washing me. The absurd, intimate normality of the act, here in this impossible room, made my head spin.
His thumbs dug into the tense muscles at the base of my neck, and a soft groan escaped me before I could catch it.
He worked in silence, his hands moving lower, over the blades of my back, his fingers tracing the line of my spine.
Each pass of his palms sent shocks of sensation through me.
It wasn’t sexual, not yet, but it was profoundly possessive.
He was mapping me, claiming me with touch alone.
My skin sang under his attention, every nerve ending awake and straining toward him.
His hands slid around my ribs, moving toward my front.
My breath hitched. He paused, his fingers splayed over the sides of my breasts, not touching them directly, just cradling the swell.
The air between our faces was hot and damp.
I could see the water droplets caught in his dark lashes, the intense focus in his eyes as he watched my reaction.
This was the reveal. Him, bare and waiting.
Me, naked and letting him touch me like this.
The first time I was seeing him like this, outside of a frenzied coupling.
The first time he was tending to me. His right hand finally moved, gliding up over the curve of my breast, his soap-slick thumb passing directly over my nipple.
It peaked instantly, a hard, aching point under his touch.
A sharp gasp tore from my lips. My hands, which had been gripping the pool’s edge, let go, coming to rest helplessly against his sides under the water.
His skin was hot silk over steel. He made a sound, a low hum of approval in his chest. His other hand came up to mirror the first, both hands now cupping my breasts, his thumbs rubbing slow, torturous circles over my nipples.
The soap made the glide effortless, maddening.
Pleasure, sharp and sweet, arrowed straight to my core, making my pussy clench around nothing.
“Virgil,” I whispered, the word barely audible over the drip of water and the crackle of the fires.
He leaned in, his forehead touching mine.
His breath was warm against my lips. “You are so tense, Anna.” His voice was a dark caress.
“Let go. The water holds you. I hold you.”
His words were a command and a promise. His hands left my breasts, sliding down my stomach, leaving trails of fire.
He sank lower in the water, his shoulders disappearing, and his hands found my hips, pulling me gently toward him until our bodies were aligned.
I felt the hard, thick length of his cock press against my lower belly through the water.
A jolt of pure, undiluted desire rocked through me.
My head fell back, my eyes closing. The heat of the pool, the scent of him and the spices, the feel of him solid and real against me—it was a sensory overload designed to obliterate thought.
He was real because of my pleasure. And right now, with his body against mine and his hands roaming my skin, I wanted nothing more than to make him undeniable.
My breath hitched, the sound swallowed by the dense steam.
His hands were everywhere, mapping me under the water, and I was dissolving into it.
He turned me gently, my back to his chest, his arms coming around me.
The hard line of his cock pressed against the small of my back, a relentless, heated brand.
“Just feel,” he murmured into my hair, his voice a low vibration against my skull.
His right hand slid down, over my belly, fingers splaying.
The soap made his palm glide like a dream.
He didn’t rush. He traced the dip of my navel, the curve of my hip, and then his fingers slid through the slick folds between my legs.
A choked sound escaped me. The water blurred everything, making the touch feel weightless and everywhere at once.
His fingertips found my clit, circling with a pressure that was perfect, maddening.
My head lolled back against his shoulder, my body going boneless in the buoyant heat.
Every nerve was focused on that one point of contact, the slow, deliberate circles he drew.
“That’s it,” he said, his lips against my temple. “Let it happen.”