Chapter 17: Morning After Revelation
The heavy, rhythmic thump of Bruce’s bare feet on the cool tile floor was the only sound besides the distant sigh of the sea as he pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. The air hit him first – a warm, complex punch of allspice, scotch bonnet heat, and the caramelizing sweetness of plantains. Golden hour light streamed through the wide windows, painting the sprawling teak island and hanging copper pots in molten hues.
Jasmine stood at the massive stove, her back to him. Sleek muscles shifted beneath sweat-slicked, dark skin as she deftly flipped jerk chicken pieces in a sizzling skillet. Thin straps of a simple sundress clung to her damp shoulders. The low hum she was emitting vibrated through the space, a satisfied, rhythmic sound that seemed to sync with the rhythmic chopping of a knife on a board nearby – mangoes and papayas, their vibrant colors bleeding onto the wood.
He leaned against the doorframe, watching the controlled power in her movements. The vivid purple and red bite marks stood out starkly against her inner thighs, visible just below the hem of her dress. A map of last night’s fervor. He hadn’t seen them in daylight.
She moved to the counter, scooping sliced fruit onto a wide platter. As she turned, catching him in her periphery, the humming didn’t stop. A slow, knowing smirk spread across her face. "Morning, sleepy giant," she said, her voice husky, carrying an edge of amusement. She placed the platter down with a soft clink. "Or should I say afternoon? Thought I'd run away after tasting paradise?" Her eyes, dark and gleaming, flickered down pointedly to the livid marks adorning her legs before meeting his gaze again. "Got hungry. Figured you might be too." She gestured with her chin towards the laden platter and the fragrant chicken.
Bruce pushed off the doorframe, crossing the space. The scent of her – spice, sweat, and something uniquely Jasmine – mingled with the cooking aromas. "Paradise doesn't usually leave souvenirs like that," he murmured, his voice rough from disuse. He reached out, his thumb lightly brushing the edge of one particularly dark bruise high on her inner thigh. Her skin was warm. "Regrets?"
Jasmine let out a low chuckle, shifting her weight onto the leg he touched. "Regret?" She picked up a thick slice of mango, its juice dripping onto her fingers. "Hardly." She took a slow, deliberate bite, her eyes locked on his as she chewed. "Seeing something you like?" she asked, her voice dropping slightly, the challenge back.
Before he could answer, the soft swish of fabric announced Camille’s entrance. She moved silently, padding across the tiles in a loose silk robe, her dark hair tousled. She stopped beside Bruce, her presence a warm comfort. Her eyes swept over Jasmine, lingering on the marks Bruce's fingers had just traced. There was no jealousy in her gaze, only a quiet, intense appraisal, a slight curve touching her lips. She didn’t speak, just rested a hand lightly on Bruce’s lower back, her fingertips pressing possessively into the muscle there.
Jasmine met Camille’s look, holding the mango slice out towards Bruce. "Here. You need fuel." There was a pause, a fraction of a second where her gaze flickered between Bruce and Camille. "Did I… bruise you?" The question was directed at Bruce, casual, but the undercurrent was undeniable.
Bruce took the mango, his fingers brushing hers. Sweet, sticky juice burst on his tongue. "Only my ego," he managed around the mouthful, the lie tasting faintly bitter. The vivid memory of Ketut’s claiming, the sheer power of her release, the way it had triggered his own cataclysmic finish, flashed through him. Jasmine’s bite marks felt like punctuation on a sentence Ketut had written in fire.
Camille’s hand slid around his waist, her body pressing against his side. She reached past him, plucking a piece of papaya from the platter. "He’s resilient," she said, her voice smooth as the silk she wore. Her eyes, however, stayed on Jasmine’s thighs. "We all are." She took a small bite, her gaze thoughtful, almost analytical. "Did he fight you?" The question was quiet, directed at Jasmine.
Jasmine snorted, turning back to the skillet, giving the chicken pieces a forceful shake. "About as much as a brick wall fights the sea." She glanced over her shoulder, a spark of that fierce pride in her eyes. "He took it. Held on." She flipped a piece. "Like he knew he should."
Silence descended, thick with the smell of spice and fruit and the unspoken currents swirling between them. Camille leaned her head against Bruce’s arm. "Good," she murmured, so softly it was almost lost in the sizzle of the chicken. Her hand slid down, resting on his hip, her thumb rubbing a slow circle just above the waistband of his shorts. The touch was grounding, possessive. Reassuring.
Jasmine slid the golden-brown plantains onto the platter next to the chicken. She wiped her hands on a towel draped over her shoulder and turned, leaning back against the counter, crossing her ankles. Her gaze swept over them both – Camille clinging to Bruce like a vine, Bruce adrift in his own head. That knowing smirk returned. "So," she said, her voice cutting through the humid air. "What’s the plan for tonight? More… exploration?" Her eyes flickered to Bruce, then back to Camille, the question hanging, loaded. "Or are we finally going to talk about the big, black elephant in the room?"
Outside, the sun dipped lower, painting the ocean crimson. The scent of the sea grew stronger, mingling with the kitchen's warmth. Bruce felt Camille’s hand tighten slightly on his hip. He didn’t look at her. He stared at a knot in the teak countertop, the taste of fantasy and mango and unspoken desire thick on his tongue. The silence stretched, taut as a drumhead, waiting for his beat.
The silence stretched, taut as a drumhead, waiting for his beat. Jasmine’s question hung heavy, sharp as the scent of scotch bonnet pepper clinging to the air. Camille’s thumb stopped its slow circle on Bruce’s hip, her hand pressing flat against him, a silent anchor.
Bruce finally lifted his gaze from the teak knot. He met Jasmine’s challenging stare, those dark eyes daring him to speak the unspoken. The phantom ache of Ketut’s fierce possession pulsed low in his belly, mingling with the vivid memory of Jasmine’s teeth marking her claim. He felt Camille’s stillness beside him, her breath shallow against his arm.
He raised his eyebrows, a slow, deliberate arch. "And what would that be, Jasmine? I have shared my fantasies with all my wives. Camille has been with what 6 different men? Or 7. She told me last night while riding me how much she enjoyed it. What am I missing?” His voice was low, roughened by sleep and the residue of last night’s cries. It wasn’t denial. It was an opening, a crack in the dam he’d built around that specific, persistent hunger.