Chapter Twenty: Rituals
The scent of lavender still clung to my skin, a fragrant ghost of his apology, when Adrian's hands found me again. This time, they slid beneath me, scooping me up from the bed as if I weighed nothing. A startled yelp escaped me, my arms automatically looping around his neck.
"What are you doing?" I laughed, clinging to him.
"Continuing my penance," he said, his voice a low rumble against my ear as he carried me effortlessly toward the ensuite bathroom. "And initiating a new ritual."
He shouldered open the door to a bathroom that was less a room and more a temple of marble and steam. Morning light streamed through a high, frosted window, illuminating the vast, glass-walled shower. He set me down gently on the plush bathmat, his hands lingering on my waist.
"Can you stand?" he asked, his eyes searching mine, the earlier concern still present.
"Thanks to you, yes," I said, my voice soft. The massage had worked miracles. The soreness was now just a pleasant, deep memory.
He smiled, that slow, private smile meant only for me, and reached past me to turn on the shower. A cascade of water roared to life, steam beginning to curl and fill the glass enclosure. He tested the temperature with his hand, then turned back to me.
His gaze was different now. Not clinical, not purely tender, but intensely focused. In the bright, steamy light, there was no hiding. He looked at me—all of me—with a possessiveness that was utterly calm, utterly certain. His eyes traced the lines of my body, the places his hands had soothed, the places his mouth had marked. It wasn't a leer. It was a quiet, profound acknowledgment. Mine.
Wordlessly, he reached for the hem of my thin nightdress. I lifted my arms, and he drew it up and over my head, letting it fall silently to the floor. The cool air of the bathroom met my skin, followed a second later by the heat of his gaze. I didn't shy away. I met it, my chin lifting just slightly. Yours.
Then it was his turn. He shed his pajama bottoms with an unselfconscious ease that made my breath catch. There, in the steam-filled light, we were just Adrian and Arisha. No titles, no history, just two young bodies, intimately known and endlessly fascinating to each other.
He took my hand and led me into the shower.
The water was perfect—blissfully hot, cascading over my shoulders like a liquid blanket. He positioned me under the main spray, then reached for a bottle of his own expensive, sandalwood-scented body wash. He poured a generous amount into his palms.
"Close your eyes," he murmured.
I did. And then his hands were on me again. But this was not the healing touch of before. This was a claiming. He lathered the soap between his hands and began to wash me. Slowly. Thoroughly. Starting at my neck, his thumbs smoothing over my collarbones, down over my shoulders, across my back. He turned me gently, his hands sliding over my ribs, my stomach, mapping every curve and plane with slick, sure strokes. It was utilitarian and deeply intimate all at once. He washed my arms, lifting each one with care, massaging the soap into my skin. He knelt before me, his hands gliding over my legs, from my thighs down to my ankles, paying reverent attention to every inch.
I stood there, water streaming over me, letting him perform this silent, sacred ritual. My heart swelled, too big for my chest. This was not about arousal, though my blood sang with his nearness. This was about care. This was a husband tending to his wife. A man worshiping his most precious belonging. When his hands moved to wash my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp with a tenderness that made my knees weak, I felt tears mix with the shower spray.
He rinsed me with the same focused care, using a handheld spray to ensure every last trace of soap was gone. Then, he finally looked up at me, water dripping from his dark lashes. "My turn," he said, his voice husky.
He stood and handed me the bottle. My hands trembled slightly as I poured the gel into my palms. I began with his shoulders, the muscles firm and defined under my touch. I washed the broad plane of his back, tracing the line of his spine, my fingers learning the powerful landscape I'd only felt in the dark. I moved to his chest, soaping the dark hair there, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart under my palm. I washed his arms, his strong hands, linking my fingers with his for a moment under the water.
When I knelt before him, my face level with his stomach, I heard his breath hitch. I washed him with the same thorough, tender reverence he had shown me, my touch saying everything my voice could not. When I was finished, I looked up. He was staring down at me, his expression utterly ravaged, water and something else glittering in his eyes.
He pulled me up and into his arms, under the spray, and just held me. Our clean, slick bodies pressed together, hearts pounding a synchronized rhythm against each other's chests. No words were needed. The steam, the water, the scent of sandalwood, and the profound silence said it all.
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Breakfast at the Madden estate was not a casual affair. It was held in the "small" morning room—a sun-drenched space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the terraced gardens. The table was a long, gleaming stretch of polished oak, set with impeccable china and heavy silver.
We entered together, hand in hand. I was dressed in a simple, cream-colored knit dress Adrian had pulled from the closet that was slowly becoming "ours." He wore dark trousers and a light grey sweater. We looked… united. Calm.
The room fell silent as we appeared. William was at the head of the table, reading a tablet, a cup of black coffee at his elbow. Maria was pouring tea from a silver pot. Lucia was already attacking a stack of pancakes, and Richard was hidden behind the financial section of the newspaper.
All eyes turned to us. Or more specifically, to our joined hands, to the subtle new aura that clung to us—the cleanness, the quiet solidarity, the faint, refreshed glow that comes from a night of both passion and profound peace.
Maria was the first to recover, her social grace impeccable. "Good morning, you two. Did you sleep well?" Her eyes held a mother's knowing twinkle, but it was kind, not intrusive.
Adrian pulled out a chair for me, his hand lingering on my shoulder as I sat. "Very well, thank you," he said, his voice easy. He took the seat beside me, his knee pressing against mine under the table. A point of contact. An anchor.
William lowered his tablet, his gaze assessing. It swept over us, taking in the details—our proximity, the calm between us, the way I instinctively leaned toward Adrian as he passed me the basket of pastries. The Prime Minister gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn't warmth, but it was approval. A recognition of a union that appeared stable, strong. Presentable.
"The final guest list for the wedding will be ready this afternoon," William stated, picking up his coffee. "Arisha, your mother and I will review it together. We've agreed to keep the media to a controlled pool."
"Thank you, sir," I said, meeting his eyes. "I appreciate that."
"It's practical," he said, but the edge in his tone from previous days was gone. It was just fact.
Lucia grinned, syrup poised on her fork. "So, what's on the agenda for the newlyweds today? More secret plotting?"
Adrian shot her a warning look, but he was smiling. "Actually, I thought we'd go into the city. Show my wife her new home properly. Maybe visit that bookstore she likes."
My heart gave a happy little flutter. My wife. Her new home. He said it so casually, so confidently, weaving me into the fabric of his life in front of his family.
"A lovely idea," Maria said, smiling. "It's important to build your own routines."
The conversation moved on—to politics, to Lucia's university plans, to a charity gala next month. We were part of it. Adrian included me with a touch, a glance, a quiet, "What do you think, love?" when the topic of the gala's theme arose.
Sitting there, eating delicate strawberry jam on a warm croissant, with Adrian's leg solid against mine and his family talking around us, I felt a surreal sense of belonging. It wasn't the fierce, private belonging of our bed or our shower. This was different. This was our union being acknowledged, woven into the daily ritual of this powerful family. It was being offered a seat at the table, literally and figuratively.
As breakfast ended and we rose to leave, Adrian's hand found the small of my back, a familiar, possessive gesture. William looked up.
"Adrian."
"Yes, Father?"
"Take the car. And the security detail."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. But it was also an acceptance. We were out in the world now, as a unit. A Madden unit. To be protected.
"Yes, sir," Adrian said.
Outside the morning room, in the grand hallway, Adrian stopped me. He tilted my chin up, his eyes searching mine. "Alright?" he asked softly, all the easy confidence from the table gone, replaced by a husband's concern.
I smiled, leaning into his touch. "More than alright." I glanced back toward the breakfast room. "That was… normal."
He kissed my forehead, his lips lingering. "It's just the beginning of our normal, Mrs. Madden." He took my hand. "Now, let's go get lost in a bookstore. I want to watch you be completely, utterly yourself."
And as we walked down the hall, hand in hand, ready to face the city and the world, I knew the deepest ritual of all had been completed. We had stepped out of our private sanctuary and into the shared light of day, together. The secret was fully, beautifully, irrevocably over. We were simply, and complexly, us.