Chapter 9: Aftercare Ritual
The quiet after their laughter felt deeper, thicker. Kimi looked down at Alessia, her body soft and pliant beneath his, her dark eyes drowsy with satisfaction. He could see the faint pink marks on the inside of her thighs, a stark contrast against her olive skin. His doing. A possessive thrill shot through him, immediately followed by a surge of protective tenderness so sharp it was almost painful.
He wanted her first experiences—hell, every experience—to be good. To be right. To set a standard so high in her mind that anything less would feel like a betrayal. He knew what it was to be used for access, for fame, for a story. He’d be damned if she ever felt used for pleasure.
He lowered his head and kissed her. Not with the desperate hunger from before, but with a slow, lingering sweetness that sought every corner of her mouth. He kissed her until the last vestiges of tension melted from her shoulders, until she was humming contentedly against his lips, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his back.
“Come on, amorina,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress.
In one smooth motion, he slid his arms under her back and knees and stood, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. She let out a small, surprised yelp and instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his throat. He carried her through the archway into the expansive en-suite bathroom, his bare feet quiet on the cool marble.
The room was dominated by a vast, sunken tub hewn from slabs of cream-colored stone, positioned before floor-to-ceiling windows that now showed the deep indigo of twilight over the water. He set her down gently on the wide countertop, making sure she was steady, her legs dangling. “Don’t move.”
He turned to the tub, twisting the polished chrome taps. Water roared out, steaming instantly. As it began to fill, he crouched and rummaged through the teak cupboard beside it. His movements were efficient, focused. He emerged with an armful of bottles—dark glass and simple ceramic. He read the labels by the glow of the vanity light: lavender and magnesium bath salts, almond oil, something French that promised ‘mousse onctueuse’.
He poured generous amounts of each under the stream of water. The clean, herbal scent of lavender and the richer, nutty aroma of almond bloomed in the steam. Next, he found a box of long, tapered candles in a drawer. He placed them on the ledge of the tub, on the counter near Alessia, on the wide windowsill, and lit them one by one with a click of a match. The electric lights were off now; the room was transformed into a cave of flickering gold and shifting shadows, the steam catching the light like ghostly silk.
He opened a sleek warming drawer, pulled out two enormous, plush towels the color of bleached sand, and laid them neatly on a heated rail.
Through it all, she watched him. Curled on the counter, she followed his every move with those dark, observant eyes. She said nothing, just pulled her knees to her chest, looking younger and somehow older all at once in the candlelight.
Finally, he came back to her. He placed his hands on her knees, sliding them apart just enough to step between them. He cupped her face. “Bath time, Alessia.”
She nodded, her trust so absolute it made his chest ache. He lifted her again, carried her the few steps to the tub, and descended the wide steps into the deepening water. The heat was perfection, enveloping. He settled against the sloped back, then guided her down to sit between his legs, her back against his chest. She sank into him with a sigh that seemed to come from her bones, her head tilting back onto his shoulder. The mousse created a blanket of tiny, iridescent bubbles around them.
For long minutes, he just held her. His arms were a loose cage around her middle, his chin resting on her damp hair. His hands smoothed over her stomach, her arms, not seeking to arouse, just… connecting. Re-mapping her in this new, quiet context. The water lapped softly. A candlewick snapped.
“Why did you do all this?” Her voice was a sleepy murmur, vibrating through his chest.
“Do what?”
“The candles. The oils. The… production. I was okay just in bed.”
He kissed the side of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair mixing with lavender steam. “This isn’t a production, tesoro. This is aftercare. And it’s non-negotiable.”
She was quiet, listening. He felt her learning.
“It’s part of it,” he continued, his voice low and even. “The last, most important part. What happens after. It changes, depending on… what we’ve done. How intense it was. Sometimes it’s just a glass of water and helping you into your clothes. Sometimes it’s making you a sandwich at three in the morning because you’ve burned through all your energy.” He squeezed her gently. “And sometimes it’s a bath where we can just be close. Where I can hold you while your body comes down.”
He slid a hand down her thigh, beneath the water, until his fingertips found the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He rubbed his thumb very gently over the faint red abrasions there. “These salts will help your muscles. You’re gonna be sore tomorrow in places you didn’t know you had. The oils are for your skin. My beard…” He let out a rueful breath. “It’s like sandpaper. This’ll keep the skin from getting tight and cracking. Makes it heal faster.”
She turned her head, her cheek against his collarbone, to look up at him. Her eyes were huge in the dim light. “You’ve really thought about this.”
“I’ve had to.” It was the simplest truth. “This,” he said, emphasizing the word by drawing her closer, “the care afterwards, is the bare minimum you should ever expect. Ever.” The possessiveness surged again, dark and sharp. “And while I hope to God it’s always me you’re with, I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t ever let anyone treat this part like it’s unimportant. Or a burden. Or something you don’t deserve.” His voice hardened, the racer’s steel beneath the gentleness. “If anyone ever tries to roll over and go to sleep, or just get up and leave, or makes you feel like asking for a fucking glass of water is too much… you walk. You hear me? That’s the line.”
She was silent for so long he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. Then she shifted, turning in the water to face him. Bubbles clung to her skin, her dark curls were plastered to her neck and temples. Water sheeted off her shoulders. Her expression was utterly serious.
“You’re setting the standard,” she said, not quite a question.
“Yes.”
“So high.”
“Yes.”
A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “So no one else can ever measure up.”
He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. He just looked at her, the candlelight dancing in his blue eyes. “Promise me, Lessi.”
She reached out, a wet hand coming to rest against the side of his face. Her thumb stroked his cheekbone. “I promise,” she whispered. “But it’s a pointless promise, Kimi. It’s always going to be you.”
The words landed like a perfect, winning lap—inevitable, triumphant, terrifying. He captured her mouth with his, kissing her with a tenderness that felt like vertigo. The water shifted around them, warm and weightless. He held her face, kissing her until the steam began to thin and the candles burned low, sitting in a pool of fragrant water that was, for now, the only world that mattered. Outside the glass, the Mediterranean night deepened, and the real world, with all its complications, waited its turn. But in here, there was only her promise, the heat, and the quiet, certain dread that she was right.
But in here, there was only her promise, the heat, and the quiet, certain dread that she was right.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. Their breath mingled with the steam. “Okay,” he said, his voice rough. “My turn to take care of you.”
He reached for a ceramic bottle on the tub’s ledge. The rich, nutty scent of almond oil bloomed as he poured a generous pool into his palm. He rubbed his hands together, warming it. “Arms up.”
She complied, lifting her arms overhead with a soft, trusting rustle of water. He started at her shoulders, his slick palms moving in slow, firm circles, working down the delicate length of her arms. He paid attention to each joint, each tendon, kneading the muscles of her forearms. “You hold so much tension here,” he murmured, his thumbs pressing into the heel of her palm. “Always have.”
“I clench my fists when I’m nervous,” she admitted, her eyes closed. “Or when you’re in a qualifying lap.”
He smiled against her wet skin. “I know.” He moved to her other arm, repeating the ritual. The oil made her skin gleam like polished stone in the candlelight. He moved behind her, his hands sliding over her collarbones, down the slope of her shoulders to the knots along her spine. She melted under his touch, a low hum of pleasure vibrating through her. He worked in silence for a while, the only sounds the water and her deepening breaths.
“Tell me a secret,” she whispered, her head lolling forward.
His hands stilled for a heartbeat on her lower back. “I have a million. Which kind?”
“A real one. One you’ve never told anyone.”
He resumed his movements, his fingers tracing the notches of her spine. “I threw up in my helmet before my first F2 feature race. In Bahrain. It was a hundred thirty degrees in the car. I was so scared I’d disappoint everyone I dry-heaved on the formation lap.” He felt her shoulders shake with silent laughter. “I had to drive the whole race with the taste of bile in my mouth. Won by eight seconds.”
She laughed openly then, the sound bright and clear. “You did not.”
“I absolutely did. The team thought I was a machine. I was just trying not to breathe through my nose.” He nudged her forward gently. “Lean over. I’ll get your back.”
She folded forward, her dark hair floating around her like seaweed. He poured more oil, working it into the muscles of her back with stronger, more deliberate pressure. He found a stubborn knot near her shoulder blade and focused on it until she groaned, a mix of pain and relief. “The secret,” he said, leaning close so his lips were near her ear, “is that I’m scared before every race. Every single one. The moment they close the halo, it’s just me and all that fear, wrapped in carbon fiber.”
“What do you do with it?” Her voice was muffled.
“I think about your face in the garage. Right before I put the visor down. I look for you.” His hands slowed, softening. “I find you. And then I strap the fear in beside me and we go to work.”
She was quiet, absorbing this. He washed the oil from her back with a slow trickle of warm water from a copper scoop, then turned her to face him. His expression was unguarded, stripped bare. He took the French mousse and pumped a cloud of it into his hand.
“Close your eyes,” he said softly.
He worked the luxurious lather into her long, dark curls, his fingers massaging her scalp in slow, circular motions. Her sigh was one of pure, unadulterated bliss. She went completely boneless, supported only by the water and his touch. He scratched gently at the base of her skull, behind her ears, and she made a soft, kittenish sound that went straight to his core.
“Another secret,” he whispered, rinsing the suds away with the scoop, careful to keep the water from her face.
“Mm?”
“I bought this villa for you. Not for me, not for an investment. The agent talked about resale value and I didn’t hear a word. I saw this bathroom. I pictured you in this tub, looking at that sea, and I signed the papers an hour later.” He watched the soap slide down her neck, over the slopes of her breasts. “I’ve never told anyone that. Not even my financial manager.”
Her eyes opened then, dark and bottomless, searching his. She didn’t speak. She just lifted a heavy, wet hand and placed it over his heart, feeling its rapid, steady beat. He took the almond soap and a soft linen washcloth. He began to wash her body with a reverence that felt sacred.
He washed the hollow of her throat, the line of her shoulders. He soaped the gentle curve of her stomach, the dip of her navel. He was thorough, methodical, cleansing away every trace of salt and sweat and him. He lifted each of her legs, washing from ankle to thigh with long, smooth strokes, his touch firm yet infinitely gentle on the tender skin he’d marked. He saved her breasts for last, cupping their weight in his soap-slick hands, washing them with a tenderness that made her breath catch.
“You are so beautiful, Alessia,” he whispered, his voice raw. “It hurts to look at you sometimes.”
He rinsed her completely, the clean water leaving her skin glowing. He reached for one of the warmed towels, standing in the water to unfold it. “Up you get.”
He wrapped her in the enormous, sun-warmed fabric, lifting her from the water and cradling her against his chest. He carried her to the vanity, sitting her on the counter again amidst the candles. He took a second towel and began to gently blot the moisture from her hair, squeezing the curls without roughing them. He worked patiently until it was just damp.
Then he produced a tiny jar of salve from the cupboard. “For here,” he said, his voice practical, though his touch was not. He dipped his fingers in the cool, herbal-smelling balm and applied it with exquisite care to the redness on her inner thighs. The intimacy of the act, clinical and loving all at once, made her shiver.
He fetched a comb, working through the ends of her curls until they were tangle-free. Finally, he wrapped her in a fresh, dry towel and simply pulled her into his lap on the floor, leaning back against the cabinet. He held her, bundled like a precious thing, her head tucked under his chin.
She was happy. Sated and sweet in his arms, a placid weight against him. He rocked her slightly, just a subtle sway.
“My secret,” she whispered into his skin, after a long while.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve never been kissed before. I think I was always waiting for it to be you, I only ever wanted it to be you.”
The air left his lungs. He held her tighter, his eyes burning. He had no words that were adequate. So he just held her, as the candles guttered and the last of the steam vanished from the windows, leaving only the reflection of their tangled form against the dark glass. The dread was still there, a cold thread woven through the warmth. But for now, it was powerless. For now, she was clean, and cared for, and his. The rest of the world, with its prying lenses and screaming engines, could wait a little longer.
The rest of the world, with its prying lenses and screaming engines, could wait a little longer. He carried her back to the bed, their skin cooled and smelling of lavender and almonds. She was asleep almost before he pulled the fresh duvet over them, her head a perfect weight on his chest.
He did not sleep. He watched the shadows shift on the ceiling, memorizing the rhythm of her breath. His mind, usually a strategist’s workshop, was quiet. It hummed only with the new, colossal fact of her.
It hummed only with the new, colossal fact of her. Sleep, when it finally came, was a black and dreamless void.
He woke to the smell of her hair and the pale, insistent light of morning finding cracks in the blinds. Her leg was thrown over his, an arm draped across his stomach, her face buried in the space between his neck and shoulder. He was instantly, completely awake. He didn’t move. He just breathed her in, feeling the steady rise and fall of her back under his palm.
Her eyelashes fluttered against his skin. A soft, disoriented sound escaped her. She shifted, nuzzling closer, then stilled as full consciousness returned. He felt the exact moment she remembered. Her breath hitched. Her fingers, splayed on his chest, curled slightly.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice graveled with sleep.
She tilted her head back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were soft, drowsy, her hair a glorious riot of dark curls across his pillow. A shy smile touched her lips. “Hey.”
He bent his neck and kissed her. It was slow and deep, tasting of sleep and shared breath. Her mouth opened for him willingly, a little clumsily, and she made a small, contented noise in the back of her throat. His hand slid up from her back to cradle the base of her skull, angling her face to his. There was no urgency, only a lazy, savoring exploration. He could have stayed there for hours.
Her hand wandered from his chest, over his shoulder, her fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, his bottom lip. She pulled back just an inch, her dark eyes searching his. “Does it feel weird?” she whispered.
“Does what feel weird?”
“This. Waking up like… this.”
“No.” The answer was immediate, absolute. “It feels like the only thing that’s ever made sense.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, just a brush of his lips against hers. Then her temple. Her cheek. He was mapping her morning face, committing it to memory. She sighed, melting into the pillows, her body languid against his. His touch drifted down, skating over the curve of her hip beneath the sheet. He squeezed gently, just feeling the reality of her.
A long, comfortable silence stretched, filled with the distant cry of gulls and the hum of the villa’s climate control. He watched her think. He saw the flicker of uncertainty cross her features before she gave it voice.
“Kimi?” Her voice was so quiet.
“Yeah, tesoro?”
“What do you think… our parents will say?” She wasn’t looking at him now. She was focused on a point on his collarbone, her finger tracing idle circles there. “I mean… they basically raised us as siblings. And this…” She gestured faintly between their naked bodies under the sheet. “This is not that.”
He laughed. The sound was a warm rumble in his chest, surprising even him. He felt her tense slightly. He cupped her face, making her look at him. Her eyes were wide, worried.
“Upset?” he said, his grin widening. “Alessia, they’re going to be ecstatic.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I used to think my parents called you their daughter, and your parents called me their son, because that’s how they saw us. Like a done deal. Brother and sister.” He brushed a curl from her forehead. “I realized a few years ago they were just claiming us for the other side. Making it official. They wanted us together as much as we did. Maybe more.”
Her lips parted in shock. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m completely serious. I’m pretty sure our mothers have a bet going. On when we’d finally figure it out.”
The shock melted into stunned comprehension, then dawning hilarity. A laugh burst from her, bright and clear. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“That’s why Mama is so weird every time I come back from visiting you! The endless cups of tea. The ‘so, how is Kimi?’ questions that go on for an hour. She’s not just making conversation. She’s fishing for intel!”
“See?” He was laughing with her now, the sound mixing in the sunlit room. “She’s probably pissed she lost the bet to my mom.”
They laughed until her eyes watered, the tension dissolving into something giddy and shared. She collapsed against him, her body shaking with mirth. He held her, kissing the top of her head, feeling a profound relief so deep it was almost dizzying. This wasn’t a secret to be hidden. It was, impossibly, a homecoming.