The tub has no shower, but I can see that there is one outside. Right now, the room is open, with the glass wall pushed aside so that the breeze flutters in, cooling my heated skin.
Unlike the room, which is more stone flooring than pool, the patio is mostly pool with only a few stone islands. One supports a chaise lounge that is little more than an outdoor bed, and which has, for that reason, drawn my attention. The other stone island is near a freestanding wooden wall from which a showerhead protrudes, as well as some hooks on which hang loofahs, bottles of shampoo, and other spa-style bath items.
Because the patio is completely open, there is no privacy here other than that offered by the stretch of empty beach and the wide open sea. It is wild. It is free. It is civilization stripped bare, and everything about this room—from its appearance to its rose-petal scent to its promise of decadent pleasures—has captured me utterly.
As Damien said, we are completely alone, and the knowledge that he can take me here with the ocean breeze kissing my skin and the wide open sky witnessing our pleasure makes me so weak with longing that I am even more grateful that Damien is holding me, as I doubt I could stand otherwise.
He crosses the stone bridge, then puts me down gently near the edge. I start to move, but he shakes his head, then slowly reaches behind me to untie the two knots that hold my bikini top in place. It falls into the water, and though I raise a brow in surprise, Damien simply continues.
His fingers skim lightly over my breast, making me draw in air, then shiver as his caress continues down my side and over my waist, making my skin prickle with need and anticipation.
He unties the sarong and lets it fall, as well. It floats on the surface of the water, and I watch as it flows outside, the sunlight catching it and making the fibers sparkle.
“The rest,” Damien says, and I lick my lips as I comply, easing the bottoms down over my hips to pool around my ankles. I step out of the tangled fabric, then stand naked in front of my husband.
He smiles, soft and easy and full of promise, then pulls me to him. With practiced ease, he lifts me up and then gently places me into the tub. The temperature is perfect, and I sigh in ecstasy, letting the slightly oiled water sluice over my skin. I scoot back to lean against the smooth side of the tub and make room for Damien to join me.
Except, of course, he doesn’t.
“Damien,” I protest.
“Hush. Let me take care of you.” He takes the champagne and opens it, very deliberately letting the cork fly out of the room, and sending foaming bubbles splashing down upon me.
I laugh. “Isn’t that the uncouth way to open champagne?”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But it’s much more fun.” He fills the two flutes, then hands one to me before picking up the second. His eyes skim over me, but the humor I’d seen only moments before is gone, replaced by something both soft and deep.
“Damien?”
His eyes meet mine, then, and I see the heat—and the love. He raises a glass in a toast. “You are my heart,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine. “You are my blood. You are the air that I breathe and the strength inside me. You are not just my wife, Nikki, you are my soul. You are my world. You are my life.”
I draw a shaky breath, nodding foolishly as if that will keep the tears at bay. “And you are mine,” I say, then extend my flute to clink with his. “I love you,” I add, wishing that I had his eloquence, but knowing that he understands what is in my heart even if I can’t quite find the words.
“I know,” he says as he moves to kiss the top of my head.
“Will you join me now?” I ask. I want his touch. I want him wrapped around me, lost with me in this warm and wet embrace.
Instead of answering, he sets down his champagne flute and picks up a glass container and pours some scented oil onto his hands. Then he moves behind me as I make a low noise of protest. But not as adamantly as I could have—while I do want him in the tub with me, I certainly can’t deny the appeal of being bathed by Damien.