Chapter 89 Scrub.Rince.Stack
Damien and Jasmine stood side by side at the kitchen sink, their shoulders brushing every now and then as they worked.
Jasmine scrubbed the plates clean with the dish sponge, her movements steady and careful, while Damien rinsed each one under running water and stacked them neatly on the drying rack. The rhythm they fell into felt effortless, as if they had been doing this together for years instead of only a few days.
Scrub. Rinse. Stack.
Scrub. Rinse. Stack.
It was such a simple thing—washing dishes—but to Damien, it felt like something sacred.
The mundane nature of it warmed his heart in a way he hadn’t expected. There was no danger here, no orders to give, no enemies to watch for. Just warm water, clinking porcelain, and the woman he loved standing beside him with her sleeves rolled up and her hair tumbling freely down her back.
He stole glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.
A curl slipped forward, brushing against her cheek and falling into her eyes, blocking her vision. Jasmine huffed softly and puffed out a breath, trying to blow it away. The curl stubbornly bounced right back into place.
Damien smiled to himself.
She tried again, this time making an exaggerated face as she exhaled sharply, only for another strand of hair to fall forward. Her brows knit together in frustration.
“Oh, come on,” she muttered, tilting her head to the side. “Stay there.”
Damien’s chest tightened at the sight. Something about her being so unguarded—so normal—made him feel like he was witnessing a private miracle.
He kept rinsing the plate in his hands, but his attention was no longer on the dish.
Finally, he set the plate on the counter and dried his hands on a napkin nearby. Without saying anything, he turned and walked away from the sink.
Jasmine noticed immediately.
She paused mid-scrub and turned her head toward him, confusion creasing her forehead.
“Damien?” she called after him.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t stop.
Her stomach twisted slightly as she watched him leave the kitchen. For a moment, insecurity crept into her chest.
Did I do something wrong? she wondered.
She turned back to the sink, trying to focus on the frying pan in her hands. The metal was slick with soap, and she scrubbed it harder than necessary, her thoughts spinning.
Then she felt it.
His presence behind her.
Warm. Solid. Familiar.
Damien stepped close, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body against her back. Before she could turn, his hands gently gathered her loose curls, lifting them away from her neck.
“What are you—” she began.
He didn’t answer with words.
Carefully, he pulled her hair into a high, messy bun, his long fingers combing through the strands to make sure he had most of it. He secured it with a hair band he had taken from the counter, his touch slow and deliberate.
Jasmine’s lips curved into a smile.
She loved the warmth of his body pressing lightly against her back. She loved the feel of his fingers on her scalp, the way he handled her hair as though it were something precious.
When he finished, his hands rested on her shoulders. He began to massage them gently, making Jasmine sigh, her head tilting forward as she relaxed into his chest. The tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding melted away under his touch.
A soft hum escaped her lips.
“You didn’t tell me you know how to give such good massages,” she said breathlessly, her eyes closing. The plate she had been holding was abandoned in the sink.
Damien leaned down until his lips were near her ear. “You would be surprised at how well I can massage other parts of you, tesoro,” he murmured.
His voice was low and intimate, sending a shiver down her spine.
Jasmine’s face flushed instantly.
The sound of his voice so close to her ear made her heart race. Her breath hitched, and warmth spread through her chest and down to her core.
“Damien…” she whispered, his name slipping from her mouth like a sigh.
His hands slid from her shoulders to her waist, holding her there. The closeness between them became suddenly charged, filled with unspoken desire and familiarity. He pressed his length into her ass, his throbbing neediness making her breath catch.
Jasmine gasped softly, biting down on her lower lip. “See what you do to me, tesoro,” Damien murmured, his tone playful but thick with feeling.
His lips brushed against her neck, planting gentle kisses along her skin. He lingered there, as if memorizing her warmth, her scent, the way she fit against him so naturally.
Jasmine’s legs felt weak. Her entire body buzzed as though electricity ran beneath her skin.
“There are so many things I want to do to you,” Damien said quietly. “If only you let me.”
It felt like a spell.
Every ounce of anxiety, every shadow of doubt, slipped away under the weight of his closeness. Jasmine forgot where she was. Forgot about the dishes. Forgot about the world outside this kitchen. Then Damien's hands left her waist, they slowly dragged upwards and cupped Jasmine's breasts through the thin fabric of his shirt.
A loud breathy moan escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she pressed her hand against the counter to steady herself. Jasmine's breasts filled his hands, Damien hummed in satisfaction as he began to kneed her skin. Jasmine bit her lower lip, soft moans escaping her lips.
Then—
“Wow. I hope whatever smells so nice is—”
Jasmine froze.
Damien stiffened.
Richelle’s voice cut through the moment like a sharp bell as she pushed open the kitchen door
Richelle stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the handle of her rolling bag, the other clutching her purse. Her words trailed off as her eyes landed on the scene in front of her.
Jasmine was still at the sink, trying—and failing—to wash a spoon that kept slipping from her hand and clattering into the basin. Her face was flushed, her breathing uneven.