Chapter 15: The Morning After the Ruin
Sunlight spills through the gauze curtains, catching the dust motes that drift lazily through the bedroom. Sasha's eyes flutter open to find Elias already propped on one elbow, his gray eyes fixed on her with an intensity that makes her breath catch. He's been watching her sleep, she realizes, and the thought sends a warm shiver down her spine.
His hand finds the back of her neck, fingers pressing into the tender hollow where her pulse flutters. He pulls her into a kiss, slow and deep, and she tastes the coffee on his tongue, the faint bitterness mingling with something achingly tender. When he breaks away, his thumb traces her lower lip.
"Stay," he murmurs. "Don't move."
She starts to rise anyway, instinct driving her toward her morning rituals, but he presses her back down with a single finger against her sternum. The touch is light, but it pins her as surely as any command.
"Today, the schedule is mine to break."
Sasha's eyes widen. She opens her mouth to speak, but he shakes his head, a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He swings out of bed, his naked form silhouetted against the window, and disappears into the en suite. She hears the water running, the scent of lavender and cedar drifting through the open door.
The schedule is mine to break.
She lies still, her body humming with the echo of the night before. The pearls and her torn silk dress still lie scattered in the foyer below, a shrine to every rule they shattered. And now, this. A bath drawn by his hands. A morning unmoored from routine.
When he returns, he's holding her robe. He doesn't tell her to rise. He simply stands there, his gray eyes soft, his hand extended.
Sasha takes his hand, her fingers trembling against his palm. He pulls her gently to her feet, and she follows him into the bathroom, where steam curls from the claw foot tub. The water is scattered with rose petals, and a single candle flickers on the marble counter.
He guides her to the edge of the tub, his hands finding her shoulders. He turns her to face him, his gray eyes roaming her body with a reverence that makes her chest ache. Then he cups her face in his palms and kisses her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose.
"Get in," he whispers.
She steps into the water, gasping softly at the heat. He waits until she's settled, her knees drawn up, the water lapping at her collarbone. Then he kneels beside the tub, his hands plunging into the water.
He takes his time.
He lifts a sponge, squeezing warm water over her shoulders, watching the rivulets trace the curve of her breasts. He washes her arms with slow, deliberate strokes, then her neck, her collarbone, the delicate skin behind her knees. He lathers her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp until her eyes flutter closed and a moan escapes her lips.
"You're beautiful," he says, his voice rough. "Every inch of you."
She opens her eyes to find him watching her with that same raw intensity, his hands still buried in her hair. He rinses her gently, cupping water over her head until the last of the soap disappears.
Then he leans in and kisses her, soft and slow, his lips tasting of salt and devotion.
When he pulls back, he traces the line of her jaw. "I'm going to take care of you today," he murmurs. "No rules. No routines. Just us."