Page 61 of Unclench Me Softly

I grin up at him, wrecked and high on orgasmic enlightenment. “Your aura just got so clear,” I whisper. And then, in the softest, most tragically honest voice, I whisper, “My third eye just high-fived my cervix.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Jax laughs. And not a smirk. Not a snort. A full, deep, ridiculous laugh that shakes the bed and makes me want to either punch him or marry him.

“Jesus, Bliss,” he says, still chuckling, “You’re something else.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter into the pillow. “This is normal. This is how spiritual leaders recover.”

He leans in, kisses the shell of my ear, still grinning. “You look like you just got exorcised and baptized at the same time.”

I try to sit up. Immediately regret it.

“My legs don’t work,” I whisper, horrified. “You broke my legs.”

“I didn’t break your legs,” he says.

“You bent them around your very large, very rewilded…”

“Shhh,” he says, laughing. “Don’t bring the retreat vibe into the afterglow.”

“I can’t even walk to the tea altar,” I moan. “I have a chakra lounge to organize tomorrow. There were going to be scarves, Jax. Sacred. Scarves.”

He rolls onto his back, hands behind his head like the smuggest post-orgasm wilderness god who’s ever existed.

“You want to go over the itinerary now?” he teases. “Make a vision board? Or maybe journal about the orgasmic realignment of your spiritual core?”

I throw a pillow at him.

He catches it. Tucks it under his head. Smiles at the ceiling.

Then, voice quieter, rougher, he says, “You really okay?”

I blink.

Because that’s not teasing. That’s tender. That’s real.

And for a second, I forget how to be funny.

I nod. “Yeah. I’m good. More than good. Just… surprised.”

“By what?” he asks.

I look at him, and say, soft and true, “That you’re not just a chaos monster in leather and bad decisions.”

He smirks. “I mean, I am.”

“But you’re also…” I wave vaguely. “This.”

He reaches for me again. Pulls me in and presses a kiss to my temple. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You, too.”

I fall asleep tucked against his chest, legs still trembling, brain still chanting chakra lounge, chakra lounge, do not die of feelings, and the last thing I remember before I drift off is him whispering, “I’m definitely gonna journal about this.”

And the bastard means it.

Bliss-ism #51/q

You cannot rush stillness. But you can dramatically improvise it while burning sandalwood and praying no one asks for structure.

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