Neal emerged from the bathroom, water dripping from his dark, tousled hair, tracing a path down his broad, muscular frame, and his feet left a trail of footprints as he walked to the dressing table. He pulled out a chair for himself, screeching it against the smoothed black tiled floor. As he sat, a waft of minted bar soap mingled with a lotion vaseline engulfed him with softness; he picked up the folded clean towel on the table; watching his reflection and the curtains billowed in the breeze behind him in the mirror, he began to dry his hair, humming to himself.

Done with his task, he tossed the towel on his bed and pulled himself to his feet. With feline grace, Neal padded across the room to the bed: a cream four-poster bed in the middle of the painted chocolate room with cream curtains.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Neal climbed up the bed; still on his knees and palms like a panther, he stared at his wife's delicate round face. She lay nestled beneath the covers, her features softened by sleep. Neal's heart swelled with affection as he took in the sight of her, a small smile tugging at his lips.

She must be tired.

Neal thought, noting her unusually early bedtime. He sank himself into the soft bed and slipped under the blanket. Laying on his back, Neal switched off the light, encompassing the room in utter darkness. And as he drifted to sleep, the soft sound of his wife's gentle snoring filled the air.

"Hey!"