Page 81 of The Temporary Bride

His fingernails scrape my scalp lightly, sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine. His hands slow in my hair, fingers trailing down to my shoulders… and then keep going, sliding down my chest and disappearing under the surface of the water. His fingers slide between my legs, and I drag in a slow breath.

He’s gentle, much gentler than earlier, one finger working slowly into me while his eyes stay on my face. The warm water and his touch together make it very easy to stop thinking about anything at all. His thumb finds my clit and moves in small, soft circles while his finger curls forward, stroking in a way that makes my toes flex against the bottom of the tub.

“I know you’re sore,” he says quietly. “Just let me make you feel good.”

I let my head fall back against the edge of the tub and close my eyes. My legs fall a little farther apart, the water shifting around me as I reach out and find his arm with my hand, holding on. He adds a second finger, and I make a soft sound that echoes off the tile.

He’s methodical in the most torturous way, building the pleasure gradually and then easing off just before I come, until I’m rolling my hips against his hand without meaning to, chasing the sensations. He does it several times, getting me right to the edge and then backing off just enough, until my fingers are digging into his arm and my breathing is choppy.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. “Relax and let your husband take care of you. I’ve got you, you don’t need to think about anything. Just feel. Just be.”

His thumb starts to move faster, his fingers curling forward on every stroke, and the pleasure winds tighter and tighter until it finally crests and spills over. I reach up and pull him down toward me, pressing my mouth to his as the orgasm moves through me. He kisses me back, his fingers still moving, drawing it out until I sigh and go still against the side of the tub.

When I open my eyes, his shirt is soaked, dripping onto the bath mat, darkened with water from where I pulled him against the edge of the tub.

He looks down at himself, then back at me with a slight smirk. “Hm. Seems like I’m not the only one in this marriage who gets the other one wet.”

I laugh, pressing my lips together to try to contain it and failing completely. He reaches over and pulls the drain plug before standing and lifting a towel from the rack. He holds it open for me, helps me out of the tub, and wraps it around me, his hands moving over my shoulders and arms to dry me off. I stand there and let him, which is not something I would have been comfortable with a month ago.

He walks me through to the bedroom, where I find something soft to change into while he peels his soaked shirt off and trades it for a dry one from the closet. I watch him do it without making it too obvious that I’m watching, and look away when he turns back around.

I pull a comfortable sweater over my head, relishing the soft warmth of the fabric against my skin. Now that I’m settling in more at Tristan’s place, I can allow myself to be a bit less perfectly dressed. It’s okay to relax in my own home without that pressure weighing on me.

As I adjust the sweater, I glance over at Tristan, who’s getting dressed nearby. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the sight of his broad shoulders, the defined muscles of his tattooed arms flexing as he pulls on his shirt.

He’s always been attractive, effortlessly so, but there’s something about these quiet, intimate moments that makes it different. Seeing him like this, stripped of his hard-edged CEO persona, stirs something inside me. My heart races, and for a brief moment, I’m caught off guard by how affected I am.

Before I can overthink it, I blurt out, “Hey, I want to show you something.”

Tristan glances over, the shirt half-buttoned, his brows raising in curiosity. “Sure, what is it?” His deep voice is tinged with a kind of interest that only intensifies the fluttering in my chest.

I swallow nervously. “Come with me.”

He nods, following me as I lead him downstairs. As we descend, the house’s airy, modern design gives way to the more intimate atmosphere of the basement. The plush carpet beneath our feet softens our footsteps, and the rich, dark wood paneling on the walls is a striking contrast to the clean minimalism of the rest of the house. The home theater feels like a hidden retreat, a place where the outside world falls away and it’s just the two of us.

I gesture to one of the sleek leather seats, and Tristan sinks into it, shooting me another look that seems to ask, What’s this all about?

I reach into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the small flash drive I brought with me.

“You asked about my work,” I say. “I… I wanted to show you.”

It’s a piece of my past that I’ve kept tucked away, hesitant to revisit, but Tristan leans forward with such open eagerness that I feel better about the idea of letting him see it.

“When did you make this one?” he asks.

“Actually, it was after I went to business school.” The words stick in my throat. This is the last film I ever made. My parents’ expectations had already ensnared me. This was the final flare of my defiance, the last spark of creativity I had left in me.

It’s one of my best, but it’s also the hardest to look back on.

Tristan seems to sense my hesitation. His expression softens, the intensity in his eyes shifting to something more gentle. “This was after?”

I nod. “Yeah. I knew it was over after this. My parents were already pushing me to take over responsibilities at MediaSphere. Film school was just a rebellious phase in their eyes—something I needed to get out of my system before I took on the ‘real’ work. Business school was the nail in the coffin.”

He’s silent, absorbing my words. Then his hand reaches out to rest on mine. “I’d love to see it, if you want.”

I hesitate, fingers tightening around the flash drive. Part of me wants to hide this piece of myself again, to push it back into the past where it’s safe. But there’s something in the way Tristan is looking at me—open, unguarded, like he’s willing to see whatever I’m afraid to show him.

Without another word, I move to the media console and plug in the drive, the faint hum of the projector kicking to life behind us. As the screen flickers, I glance over at Tristan, who has settled back into the seat, his eyes fixed on me instead of the screen, waiting.