Page 103 of Unclench Me Softly

If your marshmallow is scorched, you might still be holding onto patriarchal guilt. Or you just like it crunchy. Either way, cleanse.

Bliss-ism #42/s

Sometimes the softest hands leave the deepest marks. Especially when they call you a good girl while you come.

Bliss-ism #17/h

Let them praise you like a prayer and break you like a commandment.

Bliss-ism #93/k

Spiritual alignment requires oral devotion. With eye contact.

Bliss-ism #84/q

To plant a seed is to believe in the erotic power of delayed gratification. Water that shit

Chapter Twenty:

Fertilize With Feeling and Eye Contact

I arrange the five terracotta pots in a perfect semi-circle like I’m prepping for a fertility rite designed by a very emotionally involved gardening club. Each one gets its own little paper bag of sacred soil, technically store-bought organic compost, but I did bless it with intention and a spritz of rosewater this morning, so it counts.

Behind me, there’s movement. Footsteps. Energy.

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

There’s a certain heat Jax carries into a space, like the room knows before I do that something inappropriate is about to happen, and that it’s going to feel very, very good.

“Are we not fueling before the next round of spiritual earth-play?” he asks, and I can already hear the smirk in his voice.

“I am fueling,” I say, reaching for one of the bags and adjusting the fold like it holds ancient meaning. “With purpose. Through service.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, stepping in closer behind me. “Because this,” he says, and then he taps a finger lightly against my hip, “Feels less like nourishment and more like teasing.”

I roll my eyes without turning. “You’re supposed to be hydrating and processing. Not stalking the High Priestess of Potting Soil.”

He hums, low and amused, and I feel the air shift just before something presses against my lips. “Chocolate?” he offers.

I blink, then glance sideways.

He’s holding out a single M&M like it’s an offering to a goddess he’s already slept with and would like to offend again.

“Are you feeding me trail mix now?” I ask.

He shrugs one shoulder, the motion so casual it might as well be part of his mating ritual. “Only the good parts.”

“Let me guess. You keep the raisins for your enemies?” I ask.

“Naturally,” he says, and nudges the chocolate forward. “Take the blessing, Bliss.”

I open my mouth, mostly out of exasperation, and let him place the piece on my tongue. His fingers brush my lips like an accident, but I know better. Jax doesn’t do anything by accident.

He leans in, lips close to my ear. “You taste better, but this is good too.”

My spine stiffens and I make a strangled noise that’s somewhere between spiritual composure and pre-orgasmic eye twitch.

“Go sit down,” I say, swatting lightly at him with a cloth napkin from the altar prep basket.

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