Arms up, baby.

Rae’s POV

The water was still warm when Killian reached for the sponge, lathering it with his vanilla-and-lavender body wash.

He washed me like I was something priceless, slow circles over my shoulders, down my arms, between each finger, then across my collarbones and lower.

Every pass of the sponge was followed by his lips, soft kisses on my wet skin, tasting soap and me.

When he reached my breasts he lingered, thumbs brushing my nipples until they peaked again, then pressed a tender kiss to each one like an apology for earlier.

I sighed, boneless, letting him take care of everything.

He lifted me out of the tub as easily as if I weighed nothing, set me on the counter, and wrapped me in the fluffiest towel I’d ever felt.

He dried me gently, patting, never rubbing, then disappeared into the bedroom and came back with one of his soft black T-shirts.

“Arms up, baby.”

I obeyed, sleepy and pliant. He slipped the shirt over my head, smoothing it down my body, stealing kisses every few seconds my forehead, my nose, the corner of my mouth, the sensitive spot beneath my ear.

When it settled around my thighs, he stepped back to admire his work, eyes soft.

“Your turn,” I mumbled, reaching for the hem of his towel.

He let it drop, and I pulled another shirt from the drawer, gray this time. I stood on tiptoe to slide it over his head, giggling when he had to bend so I could reach.

My fingers brushed his chest, his abs, and I stole kisses of my own, his jaw, his throat, the little dip between his collarbones.

When the shirt was on, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my forehead to his.

“Hi,” I whispered.

“Hi, beautiful,” he whispered back, and kissed me, slow, sweet, lingering.

Then he scooped me up again, and I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist, arms tight around his neck, cheek against his shoulder.

He carried me out of the bedroom like that, my weight nothing to him.

“What does my girl want to eat?” he asked, voice soft as he walked us through the quiet house toward the kitchen.

“Pizza,” I said immediately, then added shyly, “and your smoothie?”

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. “Done.”

He set me on the kitchen island, kept one hand on my thigh while he pulled out his phone with the other and ordered from our favorite late-night place,extra cheese, pepperoni, thin crust, no questions asked.

Then he grabbed a blender and started gathering ingredients, mango, banana, strawberries, spinach because he’s annoyingly healthy, almond milk, Greek yogurt.

I swung my legs, kicking my feet like a kid on a swing, watching him slice mango with quick, precise movements. The scent of ripe fruit filled the air.

“Killian,” I sang softly, drawing his name out into three syrupy syllables.

He glanced over, eyebrow raised, knife paused mid-slice. “Yes, baby?”

I held out both arms, palms up, making grabby hands. “Come here.”

He laughed under his breath, set the knife down, and stepped between my knees. Instantly my legs wrapped around his hips, ankles locking at the small of his back.

I looped my arms around his neck and nuzzled into the warm spot beneath his jaw.

“Hi,” I whispered against his skin.

“Hi, greedy girl,” he murmured, kissing my temple.

I pulled back just enough to steal a slice of mango from the cutting board, holding it between my fingers. “Open.”

He obeyed, letting me feed it to him. Juice ran down his thumb; I caught it with my tongue, then sucked the digit clean slowly, eyes locked on his. His pupils blew wide.

“Rae,” he warned, voice gravel.

I just grinned, reached for a strawberry, and bit half, holding the other half between my teeth.

He leaned in without hesitation, taking it from me, lips brushing mine, then kissing me properly, slow, sticky-sweet, tasting like strawberry.

I hummed into his mouth, fingers threading into his hair.

He tried to step back to the blender. I tightened my legs.

“Nope. More.”

He laughed against my lips, kissed me again, deeper this time, then gently pried my thighs apart. “Smoothie first, troublemaker.”

I pouted dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

He tapped my nose. “Keep pouting and I’ll give you something to pout about.”

I bit my lip, swung my legs again, and watched him add banana, then yogurt.

Every time he reached for something on the top shelf, his shirt rode up and I got a flash of the V disappearing into his sweatpants. I may have whimpered.

He glanced over. “Problem?”

“You’re too pretty,” I complained. “It’s distracting.”

He smirked, scooped me off the counter, and set me on my feet, only to spin me around and press my front to the island. “Hands here,” he said, placing my palms flat on the cool marble. “Stay.”

I obeyed, barely.

He moved behind me, adding ice, almond milk, a scoop of protein because of course he did.

The blender was a bit loud, but I could still feel him, the heat of his body, the occasional brush of his hip against mine.

When it quieted, I turned, hopped back onto the counter, and opened my arms again. “Now?”

He shook his head, fond and exasperated, and stepped between my knees once more.

This time I stole the blender cup from his hand, took a long sip through the straw, and deliberately let a little drip down my chin.

“Oops,” I said innocently.

His eyes darkened. He leaned in, licked the drop from my chin to my lower lip, then kissed me slow and deep, tasting mango and strawberry and us.

I moaned softly, legs tightening around him again.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. “You’re making this very hard, baby.”

“Good,” I whispered, and kissed the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the little spot beneath his ear that made him shiver.

He finally poured two glasses, added the strawberry garnish with a flourish, and handed me one. I took a sip, eyes fluttering. “Perfect.”

“Only because you supervised,” he teased.

I held the straw to his lips next. He drank, throat working, and I watched, mesmerized, until he pulled back and kissed me again, soft, grateful, lingering.

Then the doorbell rang.

He groaned dramatically against my lips. “Worst timing in history.”

He carried me with him to the door, still wrapped around him like a koala, paid the delivery guy with one hand, took the pizza box, and carried everything back to the living room.

He set the box on the coffee table, disappeared to finish the smoothie, and returned with two tall glasses, pink and perfect, extra thick, topped with a single strawberry each.

He’d arranged the couch like a little nest, blankets, pillows, fairy lights dimmed low.

He settled into the corner, pulled me into his lap, and opened the pizza box between us.

We fed each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He held a slice to my lips; I took a bite, cheese stretching, and he caught the string with his tongue before it fell. I giggled, licked sauce off his bottom lip, then fed him the next piece.

We traded sips of smoothie, kisses between bites, laughing when sauce got on our noses and we had to clean each other with slow, lazy kisses.

When the box was empty and the glasses drained, I curled into his chest, full and happy.

“Movie?” I asked, voice small and hopeful.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

I padded to the shelf, picked the cheesiest rom-com I could find, and hit play. When I turned back, he was patting his lap expectantly.

“Come here.”

I crawled over, settled sideways across his thighs, head on his shoulder. The opening credits rolled.

Ten minutes in, there was a kissing-in-the-rain scene. I squealed softly and wiggled excitedly.

He inhaled sharply.

“Baby,” he said, voice strained, hands clamping gently on my hips. “Stop moving.”

I froze, then felt it, the very obvious, very hard reason pressing against my ass.

My eyes went wide. A tiny, shocked gasp escaped me.