Chapter 19: Bathing the Brat
The scent of roses hung thick in the steam, a cloying sweetness that did little to unknot the tension coiled between Alex’s shoulders. She stood in the doorway of the bathroom, watching Julen’s broad back as he tested the water pouring into the deep, ivory tub. Petals—crimson and blush pink—drifted on the rising surface.
“Your dad got in your head,” Julen said, not turning around. His voice was matter-of-fact, cutting through the fog in her mind.
“He’s just… he doesn’t get it.” Alex leaned against the doorframe, the cool marble a shock through the thin silk of her robe. The confrontation replayed behind her eyes: her father’s flinch, the weight of the diamond on her hand, the awful, satisfying cruelty of her own words.
“Of course he doesn’t.” Julen turned off the taps and finally looked at her. In the soft, golden light, he looked both impossibly young and ancient, his eyes holding a patience that had nothing to do with age. “His world has rules. Ours doesn’t. That’s the point, Lex. Come here.”
He didn’t wait, crossing the space to take her hand. His fingers, always so warm, peeled the robe from her shoulders. It pooled on the floor. Her body was a map of changes: the full, heavy swell of her breasts, the dark line running from her navel downwards, the profound curve of her belly where their son turned in his watery dark. She felt monumentally, awkwardly other. Then his hands were on her, guiding her into the water, and the otherness melted into sensation.
The heat was a balm. She sank into it with a groan, the petals sticking to her skin. Julen knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, and began to work on her back. His hands were skilled, finding the specific, stubborn knot near her right shoulder blade—the one that had taken up permanent residence since the second trimester.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmured, his thumbs pressing deep.
“I was remembering Monaco,” she said, her voice muffled against the rolled edge of the tub.
A low chuckle. “Which part? The part where you beat me at blackjack, or the part where we conceived our child?”
“The yacht. The sun was going down. Everything was orange.” She closed her eyes. The memory was vivid, tactile: the smell of salt and expensive sunscreen, the feel of teak under her knees, the shocking cool of the champagne he’d poured down her spine before licking it off. The sheer, audacious freedom of it. She had been someone new, in a new body, and he had worshipped every bewildering inch of it. “I didn’t know. That he was already there.”
“I did,” Julen said softly. His hands slid down her spine, palms smoothing over the sides of her belly. “I felt it. The moment it happened.”
It was the kind of thing he said that should sound ridiculous. In his voice, it was simply truth. He stood, and the water sloshed as he stepped into the tub behind her. He settled, his legs framing hers, and pulled her back against his chest. The water rose, threatening to spill over the brim. She felt every hard plane of him against her back, her shoulders.
Then his hands were on her hips, adjusting, lifting her slightly. She knew what he wanted. A shiver that had nothing to do with temperature went through her.
“Jules…”
“Shhh.” His kiss landed on the wet skin of her neck. “Just feel.”
He guided himself into her, a slow, inexorable claiming. She was swollen, sensitive, achingly full from the inside out, and the stretch was a bright, white-hot shock that made her gasp. Her head fell back against his shoulder, a moan torn from her throat as he seated himself fully, a perfect, impossible fit. He didn’t move, just held her there, letting her body adjust, letting the heat of the water and the heat of him bleed together.
“See?” he breathed into her ear. “No rules. Just this.”
He began to move, a gentle, rocking tide that made the water lap against the porcelain sides. Her hands gripped the edges of the tub, knuckles white. It wasn’t frantic, like on the yacht. It was deeper, a profound possession. Each slow thrust was a reminder: You are mine. This is mine. The world I built holds you.
Pleasure, thick and syrupy, built in her core. It was tangled with the memory of her father’s disgust, with the weight of the gold ‘J’ between her breasts, with the phantom sensation of a different body in a different life. It all fused, here in the water, under his hands. She cried out, a short, sharp sound, as the climax took her, a ripple that started where they were joined and radiated outwards, leaving her trembling.
He followed, his own groan harsh in her ear, his arms locking around her, anchoring her as he spilled into her. For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the drip of water from the tap.
He nuzzled her damp hair. “You left university for this.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a offering. A chance to reaffirm.
“I left a lecture hall for a penthouse,” she corrected, her voice drowsy. “I traded textbooks for tapestries.” She turned her head, seeking his lips. They tasted of rosewater and salt. “You promised me fashion school.”
“I did.” He kissed her forehead. “And you’ll have it. After. The best tutors in the world will come to you. You’ll start a label. ‘Alexandra Davies.’ It’ll be viciously overpriced and every editor will kill for it.”
She smiled, a real one this time, picturing it. The anger, the confusion, the ghost of Alex Riley, all channeled into something beautiful and sharp and hers. Their son kicked, a vigorous roll, as if in approval.
Julen felt it. His hand splayed over the spot. “He’s ambitious.”
“He’s spoiled,” Alex laughed, but she covered his hand with hers.
Later, wrapped in a towel so thick it felt like a cloud, she sat at her vanity while Julen dried her hair with another. In the mirror, she saw a young woman, flushed, pregnant, a billionaire’s wife. Her eyes looked back, familiar and strange. The body was new. The life was new. But the core, the driving, hungry, wanting thing—that was old. That was Alex. Julen had never asked him to change that. He’d just given her a world big enough to contain it.
He caught her gaze in the mirror. “What?”
“Nothing.” She reached up, touching the gold ‘J’ at her throat. “Just thinking about mac and cheese.”
He grinned, that boyish, roommate grin that still appeared sometimes, a crack in the emperor’s facade. “I’ll have the chef stock the bunker with a lifetime supply. For the apocalypse.”
She laughed, and for a moment, it was easy. The future was a blank, gorgeous canvas. She just had to remember she held the brush. He simply owned the gallery.