Page 51 of Sinful Obsession
I expected him to take me to the bed, but instead, he veered into the bathroom, setting me gently in the clawfoot bathtub.
The cool porcelain was a shock against my overheated skin, grounding me in the haze of exhaustion.
He turned on the faucet, testing the water with his hand until it reached a soothing warmth.
Steam rose in soft curls, filling the air with a faint lavender scent as he poured in a capful of bath oil.
Kneeling beside the tub, he dipped a soft sponge into the water, his movements deliberate.
He began with my arms, the sponge gliding over my skin, washing away the sweat and tension with a tenderness that made my chest ache.
His fingers worked through my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp, the gentle pressure coaxing a sigh from my lips.
He rinsed the suds away with a handheld showerhead, the warm water cascading over me like a caress.
“Lift your head,” he murmured, his voice soft but commanding.
I complied, my eyes half-closed as he worked conditioner through my tangled strands, his fingers careful not to pull.
When he was done, he wrapped me in a plush towel, drying me with the same care, his hands lingering on my shoulders, my back, as if memorizing every curve.
He carried me to the bedroom, my body still heavy with exhaustion, and laid me on the crisp sheets.
The mattress dipped under my weight, and I sank into its softness as he drew a thick duvet over me, tucking it around my shoulders.
His touch was gentle.
He brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat before he stepped back.
I watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as he retreated to the bathroom, presumably to shower himself.
Confusion swirled in my mind, tangling with the lingering warmth of his touch.
Didn’t he hate me?
Didn’t he want to punish me for whatever betrayal he believed I’d committed? Yet here he was, tending to me with a care that felt achingly familiar, like a memory just out of reach.
Exhaustion pulled at me, the pleasure and intensity of the night sinking into my bones.
The sound of running water from the bathroom became a distant lullaby, and before I knew it, my eyes fluttered closed, sleep claiming me in its gentle embrace.
Chapter 8
CHARLOTTE
I didn’t know how Ethan pulled it off, but at exactly 4:00 p.m., a restless urge drove me outside the mansion’s heavy oak doors.
I scanned the grounds for any sign of Ethan’s promised delivery, half-expecting nothing but disappointment.
Then, my eyes caught on something peculiar—an envelope, its crisp white edge tucked into the vibrant petals of a rosebush in the courtyard opposite the house.
My pulse quickened as I crossed the gravel path, the crunch of stones under my feet unnervingly loud in the silence.
I glanced over my shoulder, half-convinced Cassian’s watchful eyes—or worse, his cameras—were tracking my every move.
I plucked the envelope free, its weight surprisingly heavy in my hand, and tucked it behind my back, shielding it from any prying lenses as I hurried inside.
I didn’t dare open it in the open. Instead, I slipped through the mansion’s labyrinthine halls to the old library at the back of the house.
