Page 92 of Feeding Hope
Constance turned back to Frost, gave him a playful wink, and followed after her.
The tub dominated the room—deep, wide, old-fashioned porcelain with dark metal fixtures that gleamed under the warm light. It looked less like a bath and more like an invitation.
Constance stopped short. “Oh,” she breathed.
Faith smiled, clearly pleased. “Told you.” Pointing to the tub. “Maddog insisted. Said if you’re going to soak, you might as well do it right.” Faith directedConstance’s attention to the candles that lined the narrow ledge beneath the window, their flames flickering lazily, reflected in the mirror. The air smelled faintlyof eucalyptus and something softer underneath—clean, calming, indulgent.
“It’s… perfect,” Constance said honestly.
Faith laughed. “I’ll leave you to it.” She paused at the door, her gaze flicking meaningfully toward the hall. “Enjoy yourself.”
When the door clicked shut, the room seemed to shrink—and expand—at the same time. Constance leaned over the tub and turned on the water filling the tub with a low, soothing sound.
A moment later, Frost filled the doorway. He didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark as they traced the line of her back, the curve of her waist. The quiet between them hummed.
“You look like you’re already planning to steal this place,” he said finally.
She glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “I was thinking about it. You were thinking…?”
His mouth twitched. “Everything else.”
He stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. The air changed immediately heavier, warmer. His hand came to rest on the counter beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him without being touched.
“It really is big enough for two,” she said lightly, though her pulse betrayed her.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I noticed.”
She turned then, slowly, deliberately. They stood inches apart, steam drifting between them, the tub filling steadily behind her like a countdown. Frost lifted a hand, brushing his knuckles along her jaw—barely there, testing, asking.
She leaned into it. The contact was small, restrained—and somehow that made it worse.
“Constance,” he murmured, low and careful.
Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. “Frost.”
Frost’s hand slid from her jaw to her shoulder, thumb brushing the strap of her top. He didn’t rush it. Nothing about him rushed. He waited until she nodded—just once—before easing it down her arm.
Her breath caught anyway.
“Your turn,” she murmured, fingers already at the hem of his shirt.
Fabric gave way slowly. Piece by piece. Intentional. Frost let her take the lead, watching her like every movement mattered, like this wasn’t about skin buttrust. His hands followed hers—unzipping, unbuttoning, palms warm against newly bared skin. The air thickened with heat and steam and the quiet sound of their breathing.
When her shirt slipped free, his hands stilled for a moment at her waist, grounding her. Not taking. Not yet.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She smiled, slow and sure. “Very.”
That was all he needed. Clothes gathered on the floor, his belt unclipped, her fingers tugging, his mouth brushing her temple, her shoulder. Not claiming. Learning. Frost’s restraint was a tangible thing, coiled tight beneath his skin.
She reached for the button of his jeans—
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
