Page 103 of Salute, To Bravery
A playful smile curves on his lips as he kisses down my neck, his breath warm against my skin. I shiver.
“What?” he asks, voice low, teasing.
“I miss taking baths with you,” I admit, cheeks flushing. “It used to be our favorite part of the day.”
He stills, then nods slowly. “Me too.” Without needing further explanation, he wheels us into the bathroom and turns on the faucet, adjusting the temperature just the way I like it. The sound of running water fills the space, soft and comforting.
“Pick any scent you want from the basket,” he calls out, his voice echoing slightly in the tiled room.
I slide off his lap slowly, careful not to lose the warmth of his touch too suddenly. For a brief moment, his hands linger at my hips before falling away, and I take a deep breath as I watch him manoeuvre with practiced, quiet determination. He begins undressing with the confidence of someone who has learned, the hard way, how to do everything on his own.
But tonight, there’s something different in his movements—less guarded, more vulnerable. There’s no rush. No attempt to shield himself. And I don’t look away. I let my gaze trace the lines of his body, every mark a testament to what he’s survived, and I feel nothing but awe. No pity. Not fear. Just overwhelming love.
Turning back toward the bed, I reach for the basket again. My fingers brush across the neatly folded robe—deep purple, soft to the touch—and the row of carefully selected bath products. Tiny glass bottles filled with shimmering oils, silky lotions with names likeserenityandmidnight calm, and a stack of handmade scrubs wrapped in twine. Everything here is intentional. Every item feels like a love letter.
I let my hand drift, hovering above each choice until I find it—nestled near the bottom. A round lavender vanilla bath bomb, wrapped in delicate parchment with a tiny sprig of dried lavender tied to it. My favorite.
I lift it gently, press it to my nose, and close my eyes. The scent is nostalgic—floral and sweet, but with a warmth that makes my chest ache. We used to use this scent all the time. On lazy Sunday nights. After long days apart.
I step into the bathroom, holding the bath bomb in both hands like a delicate treasure. The mirror above the sink is already fogged over from the rising steam, and the air is thick with warmth. The low flicker of candlelight reflects in the gleaming tiles, dancing along the surface of the water now slowly filling the tub.
Craig is already in, settled into the deep end, steam curling around his shoulders, water glistening on his skin. He looks up at me, eyes soft, a half-smile playing on his lips as he reaches for me.
“Perfect choice,” he says.
I kneel beside the tub and offer him the bath bomb. His fingers brush mine as he takes it, unwrapping it with care, the paper crinkling softly. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lowers it into the water between us.
With a quiethiss, the bomb erupts in a swirl of lavender and cream, soft purple spirals unfurling like petals in bloom. Thescent blooms instantly—comforting, luxurious, almost holy in its simplicity.
We watch together as the color seeps through the water, staining the heat with memory and promise. Then he looks up at me again, his voice quieter now, reverent.
“Come,” he says.
I quickly strip out of my dress. Now, standing in just my cotton bra and underwear, I feel his gaze settle on me—intense, reverent.
He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. The air hums with energy, charged with unspoken words and mutual longing. His eyes trace every inch of me, and for the first time in months, I don’t feel self-conscious. I feel seen. Desired. Loved.
Flushing, I reach behind me and unclasp my bra. The straps slide down my arms with a quiet whisper, followed by my underwear. I step out of them slowly, my movements deliberate. Vulnerable. Honest.
“You are truly stunning,” Craig says, voice low and awed.
He reaches for my hand and helps guide me into the warm water, positioning me carefully in front of him. I settle back, feeling the strength of his body behind mine. His legs flank me on either side, his arms gently wrapping around my waist. The press of his chest against my back, the rhythm of his breathing—it grounds me.
Feeling the firmness of his arousal pressed against my back. “See what you do to me?” he murmurs against my neck.
As he runs a soft washcloth across my bare skin, my breath quickens, and my chest rises and falls rapidly. His cloth-covered hand traces the curves of my breasts before moving down to my stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
His hot breath tickles the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder as he presses his face against me. He traces soft, wet circles with his tongue before teasingly nipping at me withhis teeth. I squirm in anticipation, but he pauses and whispers, “Just say the word and I’ll stop.”
“You stop, and I will riot.”
A low, dark chuckle escapes his lips as he bites down a little harder. His hands reach forward, eagerly cupping my breasts and rolling my nipples between his skilled thumb and forefinger. I gasp in pleasure, loving that he still remembers the way I like it.
But instead of satisfying my need, his hands continue their teasing, avoiding the one spot I crave contact with the most.
I buck my hips in anticipation.
“Someone’s eager,” he teases.
