Warm water cascades over us as we move in perfect sync, slower now, savoring each precious moment. Steam wraps around us like a protective veil, creating our own universe where only we exist. His lips trace patterns of devotion across my skin.
"I've dreamed of hearing those words from you," he murmurs against my throat, voice thick with emotion.
"I love you," I breathe against his lips, tasting the truth of it. "I love you, forever."
His movements deepen, and my fingers dig into his shoulders as pleasure builds—different from before, transcendent.
This isn't just passion or need, but something profound and eternal. Love flows between us like lightning, charging every touch with meaning, every kiss with promise.
We lose ourselves in each other, in steam and warmth and the overwhelming rightness of being whole again. His eyes lock with mine, dark and intense, reflecting everything I feel—love, desire, completion. Home.
Finally, completely, irrevocably home.
21
Bella
"Just one more stroke..." I mutter, brush poised over the canvas. The afternoon light streams through my studio windows, catching the fresh paint in ways that make my artist's soul sing.
"Red." Ares's voice carries that mix of amusement and exasperation I'm learning to recognize. "You've been saying 'one more stroke' for the past hour."
I don't look away from my work, though I can feel him watching me from his perch on my worn leather couch. "Art can't be rushed, Sainty.”
"Neither can dinner with your friends." He rises, and I sense him moving closer. "Which, may I remind you, starts in four hours."
I groan, finally lowering my brush. "Do we have to go?" The words come out more whiny than intended. "I mean, I love them, but I have nothing to wear, and shopping is literally the worst, and—"
"Nothing to wear?" His tone shifts, taking on that dangerous edge that makes my pulse quicken. "Interesting."
"Don't." I point my paint-stained brush at him in warning. "Whatever you're thinking—"
"What I'm thinking," he cuts me off smoothly, plucking the brush from my fingers, "is that my gorgeous girlfriend just admitted she needs new clothes for tonight."
"I didn't say that." But he's already setting my palette aside, his movements careful despite his obvious determination. "Ares, seriously, I hate shopping. Why waste time in stores when I could be painting?"
He turns to me, and the look in his eyes makes my protests die in my throat. "Because," his thumb brushes a spot of paint from my cheek, "you deserve to feel as spectacular as you are. And I happen to know exactly where to take you."
"But—"
"No buts." He's already pulling me to my feet, his smile carrying that hint of Saint mischief that both thrills and terrifies me. "Consider this an investment in your artistic future."
I arch an eyebrow. "How exactly is shopping an investment in my art?"
"Simple." He tugs me closer, his lips brushing my ear. "The sooner we find you something perfect to wear, the sooner we can join your friends. And the sooner we finish dinner..." His teeth graze my earlobe. "The sooner I can bring you home and properly appreciate your artistic talents."
Heat floods my cheeks as his meaning sinks in. "That's playing dirty, Saint."
His laugh vibrates through me. "I never claimed to play fair." He steps back, eyes dancing with that dangerous gleam I'm learning to love. "Now, are you going to let me spoil you, or do I need to get creative with my persuasion techniques?"
The way he says 'creative' sends shivers down my spine. "Fine," I concede, trying to hide my smile. "But I'm not letting you spend a fortune on—"
"You deserve to look spectacular tonight." Ares's voice carries that tone of absolute certainty as we walk down Newbury Street a half hour later. His fingers are intertwined with mine, apparently unbothered by the paint stains that perpetually decorate my skin....
I'm about to protest when he suddenly stops, gesturing to a window display that makes my breath catch. The boutique, Valentina's, screams old-money elegance, but it's the dress centered in the window that holds me captive—a wine-colored silk creation that seems to float on its mannequin.
"That one." The words escape before I can stop them.
Then I spot the price tag and my stomach drops. "Ares, no. That's—"
