Chapter Nineteen: Tender Mercies
I wake to a soft, golden light filtering through the curtains—and to a symphony of aches. A deep, pleasant soreness sings through my muscles, a map of last night's explorations written in the language of my own body. I shift slightly under the weight of the duvet, and a small, involuntary sound escapes me—a cross between a sigh and a whimper.
"Awh…"
It's a pathetic little sound, but it's enough. The arm draped heavily over my waist tightens instantly.
Adrian is awake. I can feel the change in his breathing against the back of my neck, the shift from sleep to alertness. He was holding me even in his sleep, it seems.
"Hmm?" His voice is a sleep-roughened rumble, vibrating through me. "What's wrong, love?"
I bury my face deeper into my pillow, suddenly shy again in the clear morning light. "Nothing."
He moves then, rolling onto his side to face me. His free hand comes up, brushing my hair back from my face. His eyes, still soft with sleep, scan my features. He doesn't look mischievous now. He looks concerned. "Arisha. Tell me."
I peek one eye open. "It's your fault," I murmur, the pout evident in my voice even to my own ears.
A slow, dawning understanding lights his face, followed by a flicker of something that looks suspiciously like male pride, quickly banked by guilt. "Oh." His thumb strokes my cheek. "Where does it hurt?"
"Everywhere," I whisper, the confession feeling absurdly intimate. "My… my legs. My back. Just… everywhere you were." I feel a blush heat my skin. "What you did… it's… it's sore."
The concern wins out over the pride. His expression softens into pure tenderness. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I got… carried away. I'm a brute."
"You are," I agree, but I'm fighting a smile. "A relentless, mapping brute."
He chuckles, the sound warm and low. He leans in and kisses my shoulder, right over a faint mark I can't see but can certainly feel. "My passionate, perfect wife. Forgive me."
He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he shifts, sitting up. The sheets pool around his waist. "Stay there."
"Where would I go?" I mutter, watching as he gets out of bed. The morning light paints his back in shades of gold and shadow, highlighting the powerful lines of his shoulders, the faint scratches my fingers might have left last night in a moment of abandon. My stomach does a slow, delicious flip.
He returns a moment later. In his hands is a small, elegant glass bottle. He sits on the edge of the bed, his gaze solemn. "Roll over. Onto your stomach."
I blink. "What?"
"Trust me. Medicine for the patient."
Curious, and still sore, I do as he says, turning over with a slight wince. The cool sheets feel good against my heated skin. I hear the soft pop of the bottle being opened, and then the scent of lavender and chamomile fills the air, clean and soothing.
His hands find me then.
They are warm, and slick with the light, fragrant oil. He starts at the soles of my feet, his thumbs pressing in firm, circular motions that make me gasp and then melt. He works his way up, kneading the tightness from my calves, the ache from my thighs. His touch is not tentative or questioning now. It is sure. It is an apology and a worship all at once.
"Addie…" I breathe into the pillow, the nickname slipping out unbidden. It's one I've only thought, never said aloud.
His hands still for a heartbeat. Then they resume, moving higher, over the curve of my hips, up along my spine. He works the tension from my lower back with a firm, knowing pressure that draws a low moan from me. This is different from the frantic, mapping touches of the night. This is a deep, healing language.
"What did you call me?" he asks, his voice a quiet vibration in the quiet room.
"Nothing," I mumble, my face flaming.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Say it again."
I shake my head, mortified.
His hands slide up to my shoulders, his thumbs working the knots at the base of my neck. I am putty under his touch. A boneless, sighing creature of pure sensation.
"Please?" he murmurs, and the rare note of pleading in his voice undoes me.
"Addie," I whisper into the cotton. "My Addie."
A soft, shuddering breath leaves him. He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the nape of my neck. "Yours," he vows against my skin. "Always."
He continues his ministrations until every last protest of my body has been soothed away, replaced by a languid, heavy warmth. When he's finished, he gently turns me back over. My eyes are half-lidded, my limbs liquid.
He looks down at me, his eyes dark with an emotion so fierce it steals my breath. He traces my bottom lip with his oil-slick thumb. "Better?"
I nod, unable to speak. The soreness is now just a pleasant, distant memory, drowned in a sea of lavender and his devotion.
"Good." He bends, kissing me softly. It's a kiss of morning breath and tenderness, of ownership and utter care. "Now," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, a hint of the old mischief returning to his eyes. "About last night…"
I swat weakly at his chest. "Don't you dare."
He catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. "I'm just saying… for the next time… I have a new map in mind. One with fewer… casualties."
I laugh, the sound free and happy in our sunlit room. The world outside—the wedding plans, the expectations, the noise—feels a million miles away. There is only this. His hands that can wreck and heal me in the span of hours. His smile that is both a promise and a challenge. The sweet, floral scent of his apology lingering on my skin.
"Next time," I whisper, pulling him down to me, "you'd better be prepared to be sore too, Mr. Madden."
His answering grin is brilliant and wicked. "I'd have it no other way, Mrs. Madden."
And as his lips find mine again, I know, with a certainty that roots deep in my soul, that this—this tender, playful, all-consuming love—is the only ache I ever want to feel.