The Prototype

72. Beneath The Storm

TEMPEST

Steam still clung to the corners of the mirror, curling at the edges like smoke refusing to fade. The scent of my shower products lingered thick in the air—warm vanilla, sharp eucalyptus, a hint of salt carried in from the ocean that licked at the windows just beyond the deck. My fingers combed through my soaked coils, dragging down the heavy spirals, loosening their shape as they framed my face—thick, full, wild in a way that refused to be tamed. Water traced slow trails beneath the robe wrapped around me, the white terry cloth clinging to the dip of my waist, drinking from my skin while the last of the heat from the shower held on. I stayed focused on the reflection staring back—bare shoulders, bare face, the hush of last night still thrumming in my limbs like an echo I didn't want to quiet.

His silhouette shifted behind me in the mirror.

That broad frame filled the doorway, dressed in all-black, shoulders squared like he was carved out of command itself. Marcellus leaned like the image in front of him—me, in his robe, in his bathroom, hand in my hair, fresh-faced and flushed with afterglow—was exactly how his morning was supposed to look. His smirk didn't come all at once. It crept in, slow and knowing, the corner of his mouth lifting the second my eyes met his in the mirror. That look—loaded with memory, thick with satisfaction—making my pulse shift low.

"What's the smirk for?" My voice rasped out, low and smooth, still worn from everything we've done last night.

He moved slow. No words at first. Just the weight of him stepping in behind me, letting the space shrink until his hands slid around my waist, his fingers pressing into my hips. His lips skimmed above my shoulder—warm, firm, soft where his mouth met my skin, still damp and flushed beneath the robe.

"I told you back in Palermo you should've worn it like this," he murmured, his voice low and too pleased. His eyes roamed over my reflection. "Your hair was bound to get wet eventually."

A scoff slipped out, tangled with a low laugh. A grin curled on my face, unbothered, my eyes rolled playfully. "I made it to day five. Could've survived the whole damn trip. But of course not after last night."

I lifted a section of my hair, watching the curly strands fall like heavy silk. "Would've helped if I had all my things. My scarf. Shower cap. You know—tools of the natural hair trade."

"You really think you would've had the energy to protect your hair?" His voice dragged low over my spine, his mouth following. He kissed along the line of my neck as if he was savoring me. "Not after you collapsed in my arms after our shower last night."

The chuckle he gave landed hot against my skin.

"Besides," he said before kissing me again, slower this time. "You didn't need them." His grip tightened, dragging me against him until my back hit his chest. "You're perfect like this."

"Well," I dragged, letting sweetness roll sharp on my tongue, "how nice of you—sending your driver to grab me a new outfit, the right products, a toothbrush and perfume while I slept in. But you could've just had him bring my suitcase."

His tongue grazed my skin before his lips closed over it.

"You won't need anything from your suitcase today," his voice dark and edged with promise. "Not with the kind of day we're about to have."

That pulled my head around. I turned in his arms, forcing his full attention, locking my stare with his and refusing to look away. My body stayed close, "What kind of day are we about to have, Marcellus?" my voice came sharp, probing.

He kissed me.

Slow. Controlled. Like he knew I hated being left without answers. His tongue swept against mine, teasing with just enough pressure to hook me into the taste before he pulled away. Not all at once. Just enough to let the tension stretch between us.