Chapter 32 But We Have to Wait Till We’re Back
“Okay. Your order will be delivered to your room in about ten to twenty minutes. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, that’ll be all. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Bridge. Enjoy your meal!”
Amelia set the receiver down gently. She lingered a moment, fingers trailing across the cool marble console, gaze drifting toward the hallway where faint splashing and off-key singing drifted out. Her smile deepened— small, private, warm.
She crossed to the window, pushed the linen aside just enough to let slanted sunlight stripe the floor. Paris lay below: rooftops glinting wet from last night’s rain, the Seine a silver ribbon in the distance, the city already humming awake while she stood barefoot in luxury, listening to a father and son fill the apartment with water and song.
From the bathroom, Pete’s voice rose triumphantly. “Again, Daddy! Sing it again!”
Andrew’s laugh rolled out, deep and easy. “One more time, then we’re out. Deal?”
“Deal!”
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Amelia made her way back to the bedroom and stepped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her with the soft precision of well-oiled luxury hardware. Steam still lingered from earlier showers, curling lazily against the tall frosted window that filtered in muted morning light the color of pale champagne. The air was laced with faint traces of eucalyptus body wash and the clean, citrus bite of someone else’s shampoo.
She paused at the wide glass shower cabinet, fingers already at the hem of her pale-lilac sleep shirt. One smooth upward pull and the fabric whispered over her head, ash-blonde hair tumbling free in soft waves. She folded the shirt once, twice, then reached for the chrome hook beside the cabinet and hung it neatly, sleeves dangling like surrendered flags.
Pyjama shorts followed— slid down long legs in one fluid motion, stepped out of, folded, hung beside the shirt. Naked now, skin prickling slightly in the cooler air outside the shower zone, she opened the glass door. The handle was warm from residual heat.
Inside, she twisted the brushed-gold dial. Water erupted from the wide rainfall head in a sudden, generous rush— first cold for half a heartbeat, then blooming into perfect moderate warmth that made her sigh through her nose. She stepped fully under it. Hot streams sheeted over her scalp, down her face, tracing rivulets along collarbones, breasts, stomach, thighs. Hair darkened instantly, clinging to her neck and shoulders in wet ropes.
She reached for the glass shelf. A heavy bottle of shampoo— clear amber liquid— tilted into her palm. She worked it between both hands until thick foam built, then buried her fingers in her hair. Scalp massage was slow, deliberate: circles at the crown, raking back toward the nape, thumbs pressing into temples. Suds slid down her arms, her spine, pooling briefly at the small of her back before racing to the drain.
She hummed low— a wordless melody, almost a purr— while soapy hands glided over breasts, ribs, hips. One leg lifted to the narrow marble bench; she scrubbed the sole of her foot, between toes, then switched. The other leg. Slow turns under the spray, letting water pound shoulders, rinse every trace of lather until skin gleamed.
Minutes passed like that— five, maybe seven— pure sensation, eyes half-closed, head tipped back. Finally she reached up, twisted the dial again. Water slowed, thinned, stopped. Silence returned except for the soft drip-drip from the head.
She pushed the glass door open. Cool air kissed damp skin, raising faint gooseflesh. The thick white towel waited on the heated rail— plush, hotel-monogrammed, still warm. She lifted it, pressed it first to her face, inhaling clean cotton, then dragged it down neck, shoulders, breasts, stomach, thighs. Methodical. Thorough. When every drop was blotted she wrapped the towel around herself— tucking the top edge firmly above her breasts, the hem brushing mid-thigh.
Barefoot, she stepped to the expansive wall mirror above the double vanity. Fog clung to the edges but the center was clear. She faced her reflection: wet hair darkening to honey at the roots, cheeks flushed from heat, eyes bright green-grey in the soft light. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted a fraction.
A slow smile began at one corner of her mouth— small at first, private— then spread, curling wider, sharper. Teeth flashed white. Eyes narrowed with something fierce and triumphant.
“You’ve lost, Maggie,” she said to the mirror, voice low, almost tender. “I have your husband and your son fully under my fingers now. They’ve completely fallen under my charm.” She leaned closer until her breath fogged the glass again. “And I’m never letting go of them.”
The words hung in the humid air like smoke.
She straightened, reached for her toothbrush— electric, rose-gold handle— slid it from the holder. Toothpaste tube squeezed; a neat blue stripe landed on the bristles. She brushed in slow, even strokes— upper left quadrant, upper right, lower left, lower right— cheeks hollowing slightly with each pass. Foam gathered at the corners of her lips. After two full minutes she bent, spat the minty froth into the sink in a neat arc, then rinsed— mouthful after mouthful— until the water ran clear. Toothbrush rinsed under the tap, bristles tapped twice against porcelain, returned to its slot.
She turned, pushed the bathroom door open.
Andrew stood near the wardrobe in the bedroom proper, already dressed: crisp white T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and chest, black athletic shorts hugging powerful thighs, simple black flip-flops on his feet. At six-foot-seven his presence filled the room without effort. He was fastening the last link of his Rolex— steel and black dial catching the light— when he glanced up.
His eyes locked on her towel-wrapped form. Pupils dilated a fraction. A slow, hungry smile spread across his face; one brow arched.
“I’d like to tear that towel off your body for a quickie right now,” he said, voice low and rough, “if you’d allow me.”
Amelia’s own smile turned wicked. She sauntered toward the wardrobe, hips swaying just enough to make the towel’s hem flirt with her thighs.
“That sounds fun,” she purred. “I’d even want more than a quickie. I’d want you to pound me hard— like you did last night.” She paused at the wardrobe doors, fingers trailing over hanging silk blouses. “But we have to wait till we’re back.”