Page 62 of One Pucking Secret
“Let’s take it one step at a time,” I suggest cautiously.
Wyatt nods slowly. “Follow me.”
We head into his master bathroom, where we’re greeted with the bath he’s drawn. The water’s surface mirrors a quiet reflection of shared desire for some kind of peace.
“Come on, get in,” he urges. It’s not just an offer—it’s permission to let go, if only for a while.
I nod, feeling the weight of the day begin to dissolve in the promise of those steam-filled swirls.
As I inch closer, Wyatt’s hands are gentle, easing away each layer of fabric between me and the warm embrace of the water waiting below. Each brush of his fingers raises goosebumps, his touch a mixture of comfort and anticipation.
“Are you going to assist me the whole way?” I quip lightly as he steadies me.
A smirk tugs at his lips, eyes lighting up with a playful spark. “Actually, I was thinking of joining you.” His words send a different warmth through me, one not born of the steam in the room. “If that’s okay with you?”
“So it’s that kind of bath,” I reply, a soft smile spreading despite the weariness of the day—a silent thank you for his thoughtfulness.
Wyatt nods, holding my gaze as I lower myself into the water, letting the heat envelop me in its soothing caress. I close my eyes, allowing the lavender scent to sink into my senses.
The soft sound of fabric hitting the floor pulls my attention, and I open my eyes to see Wyatt, his form a study in strength and quiet intensity. He slips into the water opposite me, the liquid rising around us in a gentle wave.
Our eyes meet across the expanse of the bath, and the rest of the world—with its chaos and demands—falls away, leaving just the two of us in this tranquil space.
Wyatt’s hands glide over my arms, the soapy lather mingling with water, leaving trails of warmth in its wake. I return the gesture, my hands skimming across his chest, feeling the solidness beneath a light layer of bubbles. We share quiet chuckles, his low and resonant, mine light and soft—a duet to the gentle splashes surrounding us.
“Missed a spot,” he murmurs, brushing a stray bubble from my nose. Our laughter fades, leaving a charged silence between us, aninvitation unspoken. I lean in, drawn to the warmth of his steady flame, and our mouths meet, tender at first, then deepening as urgency takes over.
I press closer, the water buoying us, creating a sensation like floating in a place where only touch and taste exist. His hands roam with intent, tracing every curve, and as I shift above him, our shared gasp fills the air as he slides into me, anchoring us in this moment.
A soft moan slips from my lips as heat envelops me, his hands cradling me with strength and tenderness. Each movement stirs the water, sending ripples that lap against our skin, drawing us closer with each wave.
“God, you’re perfect, Chloe,” he breathes, his voice a low, velvet rumble that vibrates through every fiber of me.
His lips trail a path down my neck, igniting my damp skin with every kiss. I close my eyes, savoring the pull of his mouth, each gentle tug sending waves of pleasure coursing through me. My fingers dig into his shoulders, using him as my anchor as I move with purpose, seeking that peak of bliss.
“More,” I breathe into the steam, and he answers with action, his desire clear in every touch.
The water sloshes around us in a rhythm that matches our own, and for these moments, everything else—the worries, the whispers, the world—fades away. It’s just us, here and now, lost in the depths of each other.
“Chloe,” he whispers, his voice hushed and thick with need. His hands grip my hips, his strength reverberating across my skin, guiding me deeper into this dance of flesh and water. I brace my hands on the tub’s edge, the cool porcelain a sharp contrast to the heat between us, grounding me as his body drives me toward that final, frenzied edge.
“Is this how you want to come, beautiful?” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
“Fuck, yes,” I gasp, the words barely forming as my mind frays with pleasure. His affirmation comes not in words but in action—a surge of power from his hips, his thrusts deepening, driving me toward that edge.
“Your wish is my command,” he murmurs, and it’s as if he speaks directly to my soul, commanding it to unravel. Then it does, and my climax crashes over me, obliterating thought in a wave of light and sensation.
He doesn’t stop. His movements carry us higher, unyielding, until he shudders, a low groan muffled against my neck as he reacheshis release. We tremble together, our bodies molded into one by shared ecstasy, his slowing pace lulling me toward a profound sense of calm.
Finally, stillness settles over us like dew on morning grass. I collapse against his chest, his heartbeat a steady, grounding lullaby after the storm of our passion.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, pressing his lips to my neck.
I exhale slowly, a mix of exhaustion and contentment. “Drained. Partly from the media whirlwind, and partly… because of you.”
He laughs. “Today was a lot.” Wyatt’s arms tighten around me, the water’s gentle ripples a reminder of the day’s turbulence. Yet here, in his embrace, there’s a sense of calm.
“Mark and I were on the phone for over an hour, and I still feel like we’re barely scratching the surface of who might be behind all this.”
