The foam from the tub enveloped the room in a soft warmth, as if the time in there was slowly slipping away like melted honey.
Strax, his dark gaze softened by a rare expression of tenderness, slid the soap between his hands, creating a thick, aromatic film. His touch, initially light, traveled over Kryssia's shoulders with an almost devout reverence, as if her skin were something sacred to be explored with care.
She closed her eyes, feeling his fingers move along the contours of her arms, massaging slowly, as if every inch revealed something he had missed during battles and silences. The towel wrapped around her breasts just for decorum - a symbolic fabric, about to surrender. When his hands touched her figure under the cloth, she held her breath.
It wasn't just desire - there was something denser, a kind of primitive veneration in the way he touched her.
