Page 120 of Unclench Me Softly

Because I am about to be ceremonially washed by five emotionally awakened men, and honestly, it’s not even the weirdest thing that’s happened this week.

There is a moment, just one, where I consider reclaiming my dignity.

I could take the towel back. Pretend this was all a misunderstanding. Declare the dome closed for spiritual fumigation. Flee.

But then Asher kneels at the basin, picks up a bottle of body wash, and whispers, “I anoint thee with lavender clarity and exfoliating forgiveness.”

And I’m gone. Fully lost. Emotionally unmoored.

Because now Jax is behind me, pulling my robe off with the reverence of a man unwrapping a sacred scroll, and whispering, “You must be bared to be cleansed, babe,” as if it’s written in scripture.

I step into the center of the steam-drenched tile like a woman who no longer pretends she’s in charge. Because I’m not. Not of this. Not of them.

Miles adjusts the water, of course. “Optimal cleansing temperature is ninety-nine degrees,” he murmurs. “For full pore dilation and chakra softening.”

Seb steps forward, silent as always, and dips a sponge into warm water. He lifts my arm gently, slowly, and begins to run the sponge in long, careful lines from wrist to shoulder. No words. Just touch. Just heat.

And then Jonah, gods, Jonah, pours a stream of water down my spine and mutters, “This removes lingering performance energy. And probably sin.”

Asher is now lathering my calves with what smells like grapefruit and delusion. “This helps release tension in your root chakra and also makes your skin smell like healing.”

“That’s not a thing,” I manage, voice barely holding together.

“It is if you believe in it,” he replies, completely serious.

And I do.

Right now, I believe in everything.

Because I’m standing naked in a steamy dome, surrounded by five shirtless men with their hands on my skin and their minds completely committed to whatever bullshit spiritual nonsense they’re creating in real time just to care for me.

This isn’t a shower. It’s an act of devotional chaos.

And when Jax begins to lather shampoo into my hair, his fingers strong, slow, maddeningly skilled, he leans in close and murmurs, “This is for mental clutter. And because I’ve wanted to touch you like this since the moment you said ‘chakra realignment’ with a straight face.”

And I make a sound I do not recognize.

I might be crying, or climaxing, or achieving emotional baptism through conditioner.

There’s a moment, just one, when it all tips over.

Not from pressure. Not from climax.

From care. The kind that comes in hands that wash not to cleanse, but to hold. Fingers that move with intention, not hunger. Voices that whisper affirmations wrapped in filth, layered with reverence, so that my body can’t tell if it’s being worshipped or claimed.

It starts with Seb, still silent, dragging the sponge across my belly, then up, slow, steady, a small circle around each breast like he’s drawing sacred runes in citrus-scented foam. His thumb brushes my nipple, and even though his face doesn’t change, his breath does.

“It’s for heart center balance,” Asher says beside me, but his voice trembles. He reaches forward, suds slick between his fingers, and traces the inside of my thigh, his eyes wide and reverent like he’s touching art. “And… uh… for your inner radiance. Or maybe your clit halo. I don’t know anymore.”

“It’s definitely not called that,” I whisper, but I don’t stop him. I can’t.

Because now Miles is behind me, arms around my waist, sliding his soapy hands over my stomach, lower, lower, until they settle just above where I’m aching, his lips near my ear as he says, “Let them show you. Let go. We’re all here.”

I nod, and then I fall into them.

Into all of it.

Because Jonah’s hands are on my ass now, squeezing, spreading, soap dripping down my thighs as he growls, “This is cleansing. For accumulated ego and maybe come. I don’t know. Ask Miles.”

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