Chapter 141: In The Bathtub
Lorraine’s protest dissolved into the steam as Leroy drew her closer, the scent of rose and heat wrapping around her like a spell. The water lapped at her ankles when she stepped in, then at her calves, until she was against him, his body half-submerged but solid, radiating warmth through the veil of rippling gold.
His fingers traced the line of her jaw, then dipped lower, trailing the hollow of her throat. She shivered, not from the chill but from the way his touch lingered there, dangerously close to where her pulse hammered. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet the green fire of his gaze.
"My little Mouseling," Leroy murmured, his voice velvet over steel. "Let’s continue where we left off at the throne."
Her lips parted, but no sound came. His thumb pressed against the corner of her mouth, teasing, until her breath broke in a quiet gasp. The water clung to her chemise as he eased it from her shoulders, the fabric growing heavy, translucent, wrapping around her like another trap.
"Leroy..." she whispered, but it was already too late. Her body betrayed her, leaning into him, surrendering to the heat and the weight of his desire. His mouth brushed hers, light at first, testing, then firmer, claiming.
Her thoughts of the Dowager scattered like petals across the water. All that remained was him... the press of his chest against hers, firm and unyielding, the way his hand skimmed beneath the surface as though the bath itself had been conjured only to reveal her to him.
She clutched at his shoulders, fingers dragging over slick skin, pulling him closer until their mouths met in a kiss that stole her breath. It was not gentle, not at first; it was hunger and pent-up longing given voice in the clash of lips and the heated press of their bodies. His stubble scraped her skin, grounding her, while his hand roved across her back in languid strokes, memorizing her shape all over again.
He deepened the kiss, then softened it, the urgency bleeding into something slower, more deliberate. Their breaths mingled, their movements unhurried now, like waves rolling against the shore. Her thigh brushed his under the water; his hand found her waist, anchoring her against him as if he feared she might drift away.
When at last their lips parted, Lorraine stayed nestled against his chest, her cheek pressed to the strong curve of his chest. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath her ear—a rhythm more intoxicating than any whisper of court intrigue.
"You know..." his voice rumbled low, his finger trailing idly along the harsh scars marring her back. She smiled faintly against his skin, remembering how he had kissed those very scars the other morning, each touch a vow, each brush of his lips saying what words could not: that he accepted her, every flaw, every wound.
"With all the scars on you..." His hand tightened suddenly on her waist. She gasped, her eyes lifting to his in startled breathlessness. He met her gaze, unflinching, then lowered his head and pressed a slow kiss against her shoulder.
"I sometimes wonder," he murmured, his lips brushing her skin, "if I should make you carry my scar..." His teeth grazed her shoulder in a soft, dangerous press.
Lorraine shuddered at the warmth of his claim, her breath breaking into a gasp. "Do it," she whispered. She would not mind another scar if it were from him. If it was proof she was his.
Leroy chuckled against her skin, his tongue sweeping over the spot he had threatened. "I knew you’d say that..." His voice curved with both indulgence and frustration. Then his hand caught her chin, tilting her face to his, forcing her eyes to meet his.
"You’re a foolish woman, aren’t you?" His words were soft, almost cruel in their tenderness. "I say I’d scar you, and all you can do is beg me for it. I’ll never understand this obsession you have with me."
His mouth brushed hers again, gentler this time, lingering as though he meant to pour the truth into her lips. "I will never," he said against her, "I’ll never let you bear one more scar. Not even mine."
Her throat tightened, tears slipping free before she could stop them. They slid down her cheeks, fell into the water between them, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. But he felt them, saw them.
He loved her more than she loved herself. The realization sank heavy and sweet into her chest. She raised her hand to his jaw, the coarse shadow of stubble catching against her palm. He never left his face unshaven. And yet he had, for her. He had been too consumed by searching, too restless until he found her.
And now he was here, looking at her as though she were his only prayer answered.
Leroy’s mouth curved, faint and knowing. There were other ways to mark what was his than through pain. "Scrub me," he said, voice roughened with something between command and plea. "Touch me."
Her pulse stumbled. She understood that he wasn’t asking for cleansing alone, nor the simple slide of skin on skin. He was asking her to claim him.
Lorraine dipped the cloth into the warm water until it grew heavy, dripping, and pressed it first to his shoulder. Slowly, she dragged it along the hard line of muscle. Water gleamed on his skin, catching the unsteady torchlight, each stroke deliberate, lingering longer than necessity allowed. Her wrist brushed his chest as she moved lower—too careless to be chance, too deliberate to deny.
She circled him in slow, deliberate motions, each pass a caress disguised as duty. Across his chest, down the slope of his ribs, on his back, the cloth trailed, followed always by her palm smoothing what remained, as though her hand couldn’t bear not to follow. His breath deepened, his head tilting, green eyes burning with quiet command, yet softened, indulgent, as if granting her leave to take her fill.
When she reached his arm, her fingers closed fully around it, the cloth and her touch sliding together until she grazed the sensitive spot inside of his wrist. The corner of his mouth lifted again, faint, knowing. She ignored it, or tried to, though heat coiled low and insistent within her belly.
At last, she offered him the cloth.
Leroy didn’t take it. His gaze lingered on the droplets sliding down her wrist, then cut upward, sharp and unrelenting. The faint curl of his mouth had sharpened into something darker, hungry, and feral.
"That’s all?" His voice scraped low, half taunt, half command. "You strip me bare with your hands and think you can stop here?"
The cloth faltered in her grip. Before she could answer, his hand closed around her wrist, hot and unyielding, forcing the damp linen back against his chest. "No," he murmured, pressing her knuckles hard to the steady beat of his heart. "You’ll finish what you started."
He dragged her hand down his body in slow, deliberate lines, making her trace the carved planes of him as though the act were devotion. Water beaded and ran over the ridges of his stomach, down into the shadows below, her pulse thundering with every inch. His restraint showed in the tight coil of his jaw, in the shudder of breath he swallowed to keep from breaking.
Lorraine’s breath hitched. She let the cloth fall, forgotten, her palm moving on instinct now—smoothing over his ribs, curving around his side, daring upward again until her fingers hovered just beneath the braid she had once bled to protect. Her touch lingered there, reverent, almost trembling.
His hand shot up, catching her chin, tilting her face to his. Their eyes locked, his green fire meeting the icy storm in hers. The space between them was gone; only the thrum of her heartbeat and the rasp of his breath remained.
He bent so close his lips brushed the ghost of hers without taking them. A threat. A promise. His thumb stroked the hollow of her throat as if weighing how much longer he would let either of them breathe before claiming her.
Lorraine swayed into him, her mouth parting, her body yielding, though her mind screamed caution. His lips hovered—an exhale from hers, a heartbeat from ruin.
One more breath, and they would shatter.