Page 121 of Unclench Me Softly

“It’s both,” Miles replies, far too calmly.

And Jax, gods, Jax. He’s in front of me, one hand under my jaw, the other between my legs, fingers sliding against me in slow, practiced strokes that say I know what you sound like when you fall apart and I’m about to hear it again. “This is for your root chakra,” he murmurs, smirking. “And for mine.”

I moan. Not politely. Not softly. I moan like I’m unspooling, every nerve open, every part of me exposed to water and hands and devotion and sin and safety, all wrapped into one unbearable knot.

Then Asher kisses me. Mouth sweet and trembling.

And Seb’s hands are cupping my breasts, gently but possessively.

And Jonah is whispering something filthy against the back of my neck about bending me over the altar next time, and I almost come just from that.

“Not yet,” Miles says, of course he does, and his hand moves lower.

They hold me there. Each one of them touching, pressing, giving, until I can’t tell whose fingers are where, until the water is louder than my thoughts and the pleasure is bigger than my name.

“Now,” Miles says, and I shatter.

My body jerks. My hands dig into someone’s shoulders, maybe Jax’s, maybe Jonah’s, I don’t know, I can’t know, and I cry out, legs trembling, chest heaving, steam curling around me like a curtain dropping after the last act of a sacred, erotic play.

They hold me as I come apart.

Not one. Not two.

All five.

I am washed, wrung out, lathered, loved, and completely, utterly undone.

The water slows. The hands still. The voices drop to silence, replaced by soft exhales and the faint, almost reverent sound of steam beginning to settle back into air.

And I cannot move.

Not because I’m physically unable, though that’s a valid theory, but because I am spiritually limp. Emotionally boneless.

I have been thoroughly washed, worshipped, and wrecked by five emotionally restructured men in a tile dome, and now I have no thoughts. Only afterglow.

And maybe syrup trauma flashbacks.

A towel wraps around my shoulders. Another one under my thighs. Arms scoop me up, Seb’s, I think, though I can’t be sure because Miles is adjusting the towel like it’s origami, and Jax is drying my feet, and Asher is softly muttering affirmations into my hair like he’s reading bedtime spells.

“You good?” Jonah asks, voice low beside my ear, his hand heavy and grounding on my thigh.

“No,” I whisper. “I think I need a nap. And a sage smudge. And possibly an exorcism.”

They all chuckle.

The low, warm kind of laughter that wraps around my chest and makes me want to cry and laugh and maybe propose to all five of them with a ring made of ritual pancake.

They carry me, actually carry me, back through the domes, wrapped in steam and towels and completely unfit for public spiritual leadership.

They don’t say much. Just walk in quiet synchronicity, like this is normal. Like this is earned.

And when they lay me on my bed, still warm, still dripping, still wrecked in the most sacred way possible, Asher pulls the blanket up to my chin and whispers, “We’ll make tea.”

And I sink. Eyes heavy. Chest full. Clit spiritually neutralized.

And as I close my eyes, I think, this is fine. I am fine. Everything is extremely fine. And I may never be able to look at a sponge again without getting turned on.

Before I drift off, I text Callie because if my spirit ascends someone needs to know why.

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