Chapter 3: The Bathhouse Soaking
The bell cord was rough against his palm, and he yanked it twice before collapsing back against the pillows. Somewhere beyond the heavy oak door, a servant's footsteps hurried away down the corridor.
Amber had disappeared behind the carved screen in the corner of the room. He could hear water splashing—she must have found the basin left from the night before. The sound of her moving around, naked and unselfconscious, sent a fresh pulse of heat through his exhausted body.
"You're staring at the screen like you can see through it," she called out.
"Maybe I can."
"Maybe you're delusional from lack of sleep."
She emerged a moment later with a damp cloth, wiping the remnants of their night from her thighs. The sight of her—hair a wild tangle, skin marked with his teeth and fingers, walking toward him with that particular sway—made him forget every ache in his body.
"Maybe both."
"The servants will be here soon," she said.
"I know."
"You need to put something on."
"I know."
She tossed the cloth at his head. He caught it one-handed, still grinning.
"You're impossible," she said.
"You've mentioned that."
The servants arrived within minutes. A parade of them, heads bowed, carrying buckets of steaming water and vials of scented oil. They kept their eyes fixed on the floor as they worked, filling the copper tub in the corner, laying out fresh linens, setting the room to rights with the efficiency of people who had learned long ago not to see anything that might cost them their tongues.
Ray watched them from the bed, making no move to cover himself. Let them look. Let them whisper. He was the king now, and he would not hide.
The head servant—a woman with gray-streaked hair and hands that had served three monarchs—approached the bed with her eyes carefully averted.
"Your Majesties," she said. "The royal bathhouse has been prepared. If you would prefer to bathe there, the water is already drawn."
Ray exchanged a glance with Amber. Her lips curved.
"The bathhouse," he said.
The servant nodded and retreated, herding the others out of the room with quiet efficiency. The door clicked shut behind them.
Amber was already moving toward the dressing room. "I'll need something to wear."
"You won't need anything where we're going."
She paused, looking back over her shoulder. "The servants—"
"Will be dismissed the moment we arrive. I'll see to it."
Her green eyes glittered. "You're learning."
"I had a good teacher."
She laughed and disappeared into the dressing room. When she emerged, she had thrown a thin silk robe over her shoulders, the fabric so sheer it hid nothing. Her nipples pressed against the material, dark and peaked.
"You're trying to kill me," he said.
"Not yet." She tossed him a robe of his own. "But the day is young."
The royal bathhouse occupied the eastern wing of the palace, a sprawling complex of marble and gold that had been built by Ray's grandfather as a monument to his own vanity. The domed ceiling arched high overhead, covered in a mosaic of stars and planets that seemed to shift and swirl as the steam rose from the sunken pool below.
The pool itself was massive, black marble lining its depths, the water dark and mirror-still until the first ripple broke its surface. Torches lined the walls, their flames reflected in the water like drowned stars.
Ray dismissed the two attendants who had been stationed at the door with a wave of his hand. They bowed and retreated, pulling the heavy bronze doors shut behind them. The sound of the bolts sliding home echoed through the chamber.
They were alone.
He turned to find Amber already shedding her robe. The silk pooled at her feet, and she stood there in the golden light, naked and unashamed. The marks from the night before stood out starkly against her pale skin—purple bruises on her hips, red scratches down her back, a dark love bite on the curve of her neck.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm appreciating."
"Same thing."
He crossed the distance between them in three long strides and scooped her into his arms. She yelped, her arms flying around his neck, and then laughed as he carried her toward the pool.
"Don't you dare drop me."
"I would never."
"You dropped me once. At the harvest festival. In front of everyone."
"I was fifteen and you jumped on my back without warning."
"Details."
He stepped down into the water, the heat biting at his ankles, his calves, his thighs. Amber gasped against his neck as the water rose around them, and he felt her shiver in his arms.
The pool was deep enough that when he finally released her, she had to tread water to stay afloat. Her hair fanned out around her like spilled ink, and the water sluiced over her breasts, leaving droplets clinging to her skin.
"Warm enough?" he asked.
"If I say no, will you hold me?"
"Always."
She swam closer, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms looping around his neck. The heat of the water faded compared to the heat of her body pressed against his.
They stayed like that for a long moment, floating together, foreheads touching. The steam rose around them in lazy spirals, and the torches flickered, and the world outside the bathhouse ceased to exist.
Then Amber reached for the ledge where a collection of vials had been arranged. She uncorked one and poured a generous amount of oil into her palm.
"Turn around," she said.
He obeyed.
Her hands landed on his shoulders, slick and warm. The scent of lavender filled the air as she worked the oil into his skin, her fingers kneading the knots from his muscles. He groaned, letting his head fall forward.
"That's it," she murmured. "Let me take care of you."
Her hands slid down his back, following the lines of his spine, dipping lower to cup his ass. He felt her press against him from behind, her breasts soft against his shoulder blades, her lips brushing the nape of his neck.
"You're tense," she said.
"I wonder why."
"Complain later."
Her hands moved around to his front, sliding over his chest, his stomach, and then lower. When her fingers wrapped around his cock, already half-hard and rising, he hissed through his teeth.
"Amber—"
"Shh."
She stroked him slowly, the oil making the motion smooth and slick. Her thumb swept over the head, and he jerked in her grip.
"You like that?" she whispered.
"You know I do."
"Tell me."
"I love it. I love the way your hands feel on me. I love the way you touch me like I belong to you."
"You do belong to me."
"I know."
She released him, and he turned, ready to reciprocate, but she was already reaching for another vial. She pressed it into his hands.
"Your turn," she said.
He poured the oil into his palm, warming it between his hands before he touched her. She turned, presenting her back to him, and he took his time.
He started at her shoulders, working out the tension he found there, the knots that had formed from years of holding herself too still, too controlled. She sighed and leaned into his touch.
He moved down her arms, her sides, the curve of her waist. When his hands reached her hips, he squeezed, fingers digging into the bruises he had left the night before. She gasped.
"Too hard?"
"No." Her voice was breathy. "Harder."
He obliged, kneading the flesh, and she let her head fall back against his shoulder. The water lapped around them, gentle waves that rocked them together.
His hands slid around to her front, over her stomach, up to cup her breasts. He weighed them in his palms, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, already hard despite the heat.
"You're so beautiful," he said.
"I know."
He laughed, soft against her ear. "Modest."
"I'm a queen. Modesty is for peasants."
His fingers pinched her nipples, hard enough to make her gasp, and she ground her ass against him.
"Ray," she said.
"Hmm?"
"Stop teasing."
"I'm not teasing. I'm washing."
"Liar."
He turned her to face him, his hands still on her breasts. The water rippled between them, reflecting the torchlight like liquid gold.
"You want me to stop washing?" he asked.
"I want you to do something else."
"What kind of something?"
She pressed her body against his, her lips brushing his ear. "I want you to fuck me until I forget my own name."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. The water made her buoyant, easy to maneuver, and he carried her to the edge of the pool where the marble ledge rose just above the waterline.
He set her on the ledge, her ass on the cold marble, her legs dangling in the water. She leaned back on her elbows, watching him with hooded eyes as he positioned himself between her thighs.
"This is what you wanted?" he asked, his cock resting against her entrance.
She reached down and grabbed him, guiding him to where she needed him most.
"Stop asking questions," she said. "Start fucking."
He thrust into her in one hard motion.
Her back arched, a cry tearing from her throat that echoed off the domed ceiling. The water around his thighs splashed against the ledge as he began to move, the sound of their bodies slapping together mingling with her moans.
She was tight and wet and so fucking good. He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in, loving the way her eyes rolled back, the way her fingers scrambled for purchase on the slick marble.
"Ray—" she gasped.
"Shut up," he growled. "You wanted this. You wanted my cock inside you. Now take it."
She did.
He fucked her hard and fast, no pretense of gentleness. The oil from the bath made her slick, made the slide of his cock inside her easy and devastating. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, and he leaned forward to catch one in his mouth, sucking hard on her nipple.
She screamed.
The sound echoed through the bathhouse, and he hoped the servants could hear. He hoped the whole damn kingdom could hear. Let them know what their king did to his queen. Let them know how thoroughly he claimed her.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"Then come."
"Not yet. I want—"
"What do you want?"
She hooked her heels behind his ass and pulled him deeper. "I want you to come inside me. Fill me up. Make me feel it for days."
The words pushed him over the edge.
He drove into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and came with a roar that was more animal than man. The water splashed violently around them, and Amber cried out as her own climax ripped through her, her cunt clenching around him like a fist.
He collapsed against her, his face buried in her neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the lap of water against marble and their thundering hearts.
Finally, he lifted his head.
"That was—" he started.
"Not finished," she said.
He stared at her. "You're joking."
"I never joke about this."
"I might actually die."
She pushed against his chest, and he withdrew from her with a wet sound, his softening cock slipping out. She slid off the ledge and into the water, turning to face him with a grin that was pure predator.
"Get on the bench," she said.
He knew which bench she meant. The submerged bench that ran along the far wall, built for lounging in the warm water. He waded over and sat down, the water coming up to his chest.
Amber followed, swimming through the water like a siren. When she reached him, she climbed into his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips.
"Better," she said.
"I can't. I literally cannot. My body is done."
"Your body doesn't get to decide."
She reached between them and grasped his cock, which was, to his surprise, stirring with renewed interest. She stroked him, slow and deliberate, coaxing him back to full hardness.
"See?" she said. "He's ready."
"He has a mind of his own."
"Lucky for me."
She lifted herself and positioned him at her entrance. Then she sank down, taking him inside her inch by inch, until he was fully seated.
They groaned in unison.
She didn't move immediately. She sat there, impaled on his cock, her hands resting on his shoulders, her eyes closed. The steam rose around them, and the water lapped at their chests, and she began to move.
Slow, this time. A gentle rocking that made the water ripple outward in concentric circles. She rode him with her eyes closed, her lips parted, her hair plastered to her neck and shoulders.
Ray gripped her hips. The bruises were still there, and he pressed his fingers into them, making her gasp.
"You like the pain," he said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it's you." She opened her eyes. "Because every bruise, every mark, every ache—it's proof. Proof that I'm yours. Proof that this is real."
He surged upward, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was more teeth than tongue. She met him with equal ferocity, biting at his lip until he tasted blood.
"Harder," she demanded against his mouth. "Faster."
He obliged.
He gripped her hips and drove upward, matching her rhythm, the water slapping against the sides of the pool. The sound echoed through the chamber, a rhythmic percussion that was primal and raw.
She threw her head back and screamed his name.
Not the name she had called him for years in secret. Not the name she whispered in the dark when they were still hiding. His true name. His king's name.
He held her through her climax, watching the way her face contorted with pleasure, the way her body shuddered against his. When she finally stilled, he was close too, but she pulled away before he could finish.
"Not yet," she said.
She climbed off his lap and waded to the steps—the shallow steps that led into the pool from the tiled floor. She climbed out, water streaming off her skin, and sat down on the top step.
"Come here," she said.
He followed, confused, until she leaned back and spread her legs.
"Your mouth," she said. "On me. Now."
He knelt on the steps below her, the water lapping at his waist. She was spread open before him, pink and glistening, and he didn't hesitate.
He buried his face between her thighs.
She tasted like the bath oil and the water and something wilder underneath, something that was just her. He licked up the length of her slit, swirling his tongue around her clit, and she moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Yes. Right there."
He sucked her clit between his lips, lashing it with his tongue. She tasted like salt and sex and everything he had ever wanted. He could feel her thighs trembling around his head, her heels digging into his back.
He pushed two fingers inside her.
She cried out, her hips bucking against his face. He pumped his fingers in time with his tongue, curling them to hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. Extra! She was so wet, so fucking wet, and he drank her down like a man dying of thirst.
"I'm going to—" she gasped. "Ray, I'm going to come."
He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He worked his tongue against her clit and his fingers inside her until she shattered.
She came with a scream that echoed through the bathhouse like a war cry. Her body convulsed, her thighs clamping around his head, her hands fisting in his hair hard enough to pull out strands. He kept licking her through it, drawing out every last spasm, until she finally pushed him away with a breathless laugh.
"Enough," she panted. "Enough."
He climbed up her body, dripping water and her juices, and kissed her. She tasted herself on his lips and didn't seem to mind.
"Three times," he said. "You've come three times. I've only come twice."
"Poor king." She reached down and found his cock, still hard, still aching. "I suppose I should take care of that."
She straddled him on the steps, the water lapping at their hips, and took him inside her again.
This time, neither of them was in a hurry.
She rode him slowly, her hips rocking in a languid rhythm. Her arms were around his neck, her forehead against his, and they breathed together, moved together, like they had been doing this for a lifetime.
"I love you," she whispered.
The words hit him like a physical blow. They had been implied a thousand times, but she had never said it outright. Not like this. Not with his cock inside her and her heart on her sleeve.
"I love you too," he said.
She smiled—a soft, genuine smile that was nothing like the wicked grins from earlier. This was the girl he had fallen in love with. The girl behind the queen.
He kissed her.
They moved together in perfect rhythm, the water sloshing gently around them. The torches guttered low, the steam rose, and somewhere outside, the world continued on without them. But here, in this moment, there was only them.
When she came, it was gentle. A soft shudder that rippled through her body, a quiet gasp against his mouth. He followed shortly after, spilling inside her with a low groan, his arms wrapped tight around her.
They stayed there, tangled together on the steps, until the water around them began to cool.
"The bathhouse is beautiful," Amber said. "We should use it more often."
"Every day," he said. "Twice a day."
"Three times."
"Done."
She laughed and kissed his shoulder. "We should go. There are probably a hundred people waiting to see us."
"Let them wait."
"I need to eat. I haven't eaten since yesterday."
"A valid point." He stretched his arms overhead. "Breakfast first. Then we'll figure out how to be king and queen."
"Mmm."
She kissed him again—a brief, soft press of lips—and climbed off his lap. She walked up the steps, water streaming down her body, and reached for her discarded robe.
"We should do this again tonight," she said, tying the belt loosely at her waist.
"My body needs to recover."
"I'll help you recover."
"You said that last night."
"And yet you survived."
He laughed and rose to follow her. The robe was still on the ledge where she'd left it, and he grabbed it, threading his arms through the sleeves.
Her hand on his chest stopped him before he could tie it closed.
"I love you," she said again.
She sounded almost surprised, as if the words were still new. As if she couldn't quite believe they were allowed to be said aloud.
"I love you too," he said. "Always have. Always will."
She kissed him one last time, then pulled back with a mischievous glint in her eye.
"Now let's go eat. I'm starving."
She was out the door before he could respond, her laughter echoing off the marble walls.