Chapter 40 Chapter 40
Bryson was waiting. His jacket draped over a chair, his shoes kicked off. His shirt was gone, leaving the clean, hard lines of muscle under warm lamplight. Behind him, the glow of candles flickered across the marble, their light softening the sharp edges of the room. A silver bucket of champagne rested on a stand near the tub, two flutes catching the light. Steam curled from the water already waiting, a froth of bubbles lapping gently at the edges as though he’d been expecting her down to the minute.
He looked up at her, his gaze slow and appreciative, like he’d already known exactly what she would choose.
And he was ready to accept her.
He didn’t say a word at first, just let his eyes travel over her, slow enough that she could feel it in her skin. When his gaze finally met hers, there was a warmth there that made her stomach dip — not just desire, but something steadier. Something protective.
“Come here, baby,” he said softly, extending a hand.
She crossed to him, the lace teddy folded loosely in her hands like a fragile secret. His palm was warm when it closed around hers, and instead of pulling her into him, he gently plucked the garment from her grasp.
“I’ll set this in here for you,” he murmured, stepping into the small dressing alcove off the bathroom. He laid the teddy over the edge of the bench with deliberate care, as if even that needed to be perfect for her.
When he came back, he didn’t lead her straight to the tub. Instead, Bryson guided her toward the full-length mirror along the far wall.
“Turn around,” he said, voice low.
She obeyed, pulse quickening. His body came up behind hers, heat and strength wrapping around her like an unspoken claim. Her reflection showed the way his broad shoulders framed her smaller frame, the sharp lines of his jaw shadowed by that dark stubble.
He reached for the first button of her blouse, undoing it slowly, his knuckles grazing the tops of her breasts. His stubble brushed her neck as he leaned in, inhaling her, nose skimming her skin.
A shiver ran through her when his teeth caught the shell of her ear — gentle, deliberate — before his mouth soothed the spot.
Her eyes caught his reflection in the mirror, then drifted lower, taking in the way his abs flexed and shifted against her back, every muscle cut and defined.
Her breath caught. “Bryson…”
“Shh.” His knuckles traced the curve of her spine as the last button slipped free. “You’ve been running nonstop since California. You’ve been holding it together when most people would’ve fallen apart. Tonight, I want you to do nothing but feel.”
By the time the blouse slid from her shoulders, she was trembling for reasons that had nothing to do with temperature.
He didn’t move away from her right away, just let the silence stretch, his gaze locked on hers in the mirror. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, Bryson began to circle her, his presence brushing against her senses like a low current.
He came to stand behind her again, watching every shift of her breath, every tremor that rippled through her body. Then he sank to his knees — a position that made her pulse stutter — and reached around to find the hidden zipper at the back of her skirt.
The sound was soft, almost intimate, as he drew it down. His hands lingered at her hips, coaxing the fabric to slide over the gentle curve of her backside until it pooled around her feet in a dark puddle.
“Hands here,” he murmured, taking her wrists and guiding them up to rest lightly on his shoulders. The subtle command sent a shiver down her spine.
Maintaining unbroken direct eye contact, he reached for the delicate straps of her garter belt, unfastening them one by one with patient precision. His fingers traced the line of her thigh before finding the clasp of her stockings, releasing them with a quiet snap.
One at a time, he rolled the sheer fabric down her legs in slow, spiraling strokes, his fingertips brushing skin in a way that felt less like removal and more like reverence. By the time the last stocking slipped past her ankle, goosebumps had risen along her skin, chased by the warmth of his touch.
Bryson’s hands smoothed up her calves, over her knees, and along the outside of her thighs, his palms lingering like he was memorizing every contour.
When he finally rose to his full height behind her, he bent just enough to let his lips graze the curve of her neck. “Perfect,” he murmured, and she felt the word as much as she heard it.
Offering his hand as though guiding her onto a dance floor. She placed her fingers in his, and he led her toward the steaming water, the faint scent of jasmine wrapping around her like an invisible caress, layered with sandalwood and the clean, salt-edged note of oceanic mist. The bubbles shimmered under candlelight, champagne chilled and waiting just within reach.
She stepped carefully into the tub, the heat kissing her calves, her knees, then enveloping her as she sank into the deep basin. It was decadent — the kind of bath meant for hours, not minutes — and she let the warmth lap at her skin while Bryson crouched beside her.
His strong, corded muscles revealed themselves as he reached for a soft cloth and dipped it into the water. He wrung it out slowly, his gaze never leaving hers.
When he brought it to her shoulder, his touch was unhurried, smoothing the cloth down her arm, over her wrist, then back up again with the same attention someone might give to unwrapping something precious.
“Talk to me,” he murmured.
Her lashes fluttered. “I… I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start anywhere,” he said, dipping the cloth again and sweeping it across her collarbone. “I just want to hear your voice.”
She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders loosening under his care. “Everything’s moving so fast.”
“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I’ve toned it down. But you set the pace, Amelia. I’ll match it.”
Her heart ached in that warm, overwhelming way she’d been trying to ignore. And when she looked at him — at the man kneeling beside her with that unwavering focus — she realized she’d never been looked at like this in her life.
“So… you’ve been holding back for me?”
Bryson gave a small shrug, but there was weight in the gesture. “For us. I don’t want this to be something you wake up from one day and wonder if you were just swept along. I want you to know every step we take, you chose it too.”
Her lips pressed together as she looked down at the ripples moving across the bath’s surface. “It’s strange,” she admitted quietly. “Part of me keeps thinking this is all too fast… but another part—” She broke off, searching for the right words. “Another part feels like I’ve known you longer than I’ve even known myself.”
That got the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, his eyes softening. “That’s because I see you, Amelia. All of you. Even the parts you think you’re hiding.”
Her breath caught. “That’s… kind of terrifying.”
He leaned in just enough for his hand to skim over her damp shoulder, thumb brushing the curve where neck met collarbone. “Good. Means you know it’s real. Because the truth is, I’m not here to just get you through the mess with Carl. I’m here for after. I’m here for the mornings you don’t think you can get out of bed, and the nights you can’t fall asleep.”
Her eyes prickled, not with fear but with something deeper, warmer, and harder to name. “That sounds like forever,” she whispered.
Bryson’s smile deepened — not cocky, but certain. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint trickle of the bath filling, the candlelight throwing soft shadows across the marble. She realized she wasn’t cold anymore — not from the water, not from him, but from the way his words wrapped around her like something solid she could lean on.
Then, with a quiet clink, he reached to the bath tray he’d set across the tub. A chilled flute of champagne waited there, condensation glistening against the crystal. He lifted it, offering it to her with the kind of care that made the gesture feel more intimate than extravagant.
Amelia took it, her fingers brushing his, and sipped. The bubbles fizzed across her tongue, light and sharp, but it was the way he was watching her — steady, reverent — that left her more unsteady than the drink itself.
Her voice was quieter now, almost lost in the curl of steam between them. “Bryson…”