Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chalter LXVIII - THE EVE

"Now you're back..." Vincent complains, pouting as he sits—rather regally—on the Edwardian chair in front of Gabrielle's enormous bathroom sink, where all her beauty products and expensive perfumes are neatly arranged.

He has just finished washing his face as the first step in preparing to shave. He had dragged Gabrielle with him into her magnificent bathroom, even using her facial wash after sniffing it and announcing that he loved the way her skin smelt.

"Might as well smell like you, what do you say...?" He grinned before squeezing a generous amount of her facial wash onto his palm, lathering it, and scrubbing it onto his own face.

Gabrielle merely rolls her eyes at him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she leans on the doorframe, watching her husband with a faint, exhausted expression. Her shoulders are slightly hunched—subtle, but telling of how fragile she feels. After a few seconds she turns and steps outside.

"Hey! Where are you going?" he asks, looking back and freezing mid-scrub.

"Getting your shaving foam..."

"Let's use yours," he says with one eye open, his fingers paused on his cheek.

"I don't have that. I don't shave." She speaks plainly, almost innocently.

"Huh?!" He wipes the foam away from his eyes and blatantly looks her up and down. Gabrielle follows the path of his gaze before snapping.

"What are you looking at?!" She pulls her thick bathrobe tighter around her body as she glares at him—although beneath the glare, there is the faintest flicker of discomfort, almost instinctive.

Vincent grins and resumes scrubbing his face, shrugging. "Just making sure," he mutters with a smirk as she walks out.

She returns with a can of shaving foam and a bottle of cream in hand, immediately rolling her eyes at the sight of him: lounging in the single Edwardian chair with his legs stretched out, his face still dripping, smiling at her like an overgrown boy.

"Well?" She raises an eyebrow, placing the creams on the shining black tiles of the sink.

Vincent hands her a face towel and tilts his face towards her—wordlessly asking her to wipe him.

"What are your hands doing?" she asks, batting an eyelash at him.

"I can't overuse them..." He smirks, clearly milking his condition for sympathy.

Gabrielle sighs, but takes the towel. She dabs gently at his face—over the socket of his beautiful eyes, under his pointed nose. Up close, she can't help staring at him. He keeps his eyes closed, trusting her hands, and something in her chest tightens. Her fingers tremble faintly against the towel.

"Thought you'd want me to sit down, as I'm too tall and you're too—"

"Shut up." She presses the towel harder under his nose, making him chuckle. Then, without warning, he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her towards him.

His lips land on her navel.

"I... I think you can shave on your own," she stammers, trying to ease herself away with a small, tense push.

"My arm hurts... I told you." Vincent pouts, tightening his hold around her waist. When she glances at his arms, her thick eyebrows raise—she clearly doesn't believe him. A thin line of unease flickers in her eyes; though small, it's enough to make her breath catch.

He doesn't care. Teasing her like this gives him more joy than anything.

Gabrielle rolling her eyes... Gabrielle raising an eyebrow... her irritated little sighs. She is adorable like this—irritated, unguarded, unaware of her own beauty.