"I like it... of course I like it. I used to only dream of this, but now that it's real, how could I not?" Elara's voice was a shaky whisper, her heart overflowing.
Being praised and touched by Evan was more than just a physical thrill; it was an affirmation she had hungered for her entire life. She felt as though she could give him everything—her home, her secrets, her very soul—just to keep that look of approval in his eyes. She turned in his arms, her wet skin slick against his pajama-clad chest. "Husband, I..."
Looking at her longing eyes, Evan didn't hesitate. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that tasted of steam and desire. Elara felt a wave of intoxication crash over her, far more potent than the grain wine they had shared. She finally understood what a man represented to a woman's world. If just a kiss could make her lose her sense of gravity, what would the rest feel like?
After a long moment, they separated, though Elara's gaze remained glued to his face.
"Do you like it?" Evan murmured.
"I like it, sir..." she breathed.
Evan raised the corners of his mouth, his breath hot against her earlobe. "But tell me... do you think this counts as a punishment?"
"Punishment?" Elara blinked, the fog of pleasure clearing just enough to remember why they were in the bathhouse together. "No... no, this isn't a punishment at all."
"I thought not," Evan said, leaning back against the wooden tub with a thoughtful hum. "So, what should we do? My wife made a mistake. She was sneaky and suspicious. If the reward is this good, she might be tempted to be 'bad' all the time."
Elara was confused. Was he truly angry, or was this a game? "What do you want to do, husband? Do you have another way to punish me?"
Evan's eyes darkened with a sudden, sharp intent. "You're the one who suggested it. Let's change the method. Are you scared?"
Elara bit her lip, her pulse thrumming in her throat. She shook her head. "I'm not afraid. If my husband needs to vent his anger to feel better, then I am willing to accept it. Anything."
A short while later, Elara returned to the bedroom. Her hair was damp and fragrant, hanging over her shoulders like a silk shawl. Evan was already there, sitting at the small table and sipping tea. He had changed into thin, loose-fitting white pajamas that clung to his frame, his long hair flowing freely.
"Close the door," Evan said, his voice dropping into a calm, authoritative tone. "Lock it. Then lie down on the bed and wait for me to teach you your lesson."
"Yes." Elara obeyed without question. She clicked the bolt into place and climbed onto the bed, her heart hammering. She lay on her stomach, her face turned toward him, her eyes a mixture of nerves and a dark, hidden expectation.
Evan finished his tea, set the cup down with a deliberate clack, and stood up. He stretched his lean limbs and walked toward the bed, rolling up his sleeves. Without a word, he raised his hand and—Smack!
A loud, sharp slap echoed through the room as his palm connected with her rear. Elara let out a muffled gasp, the sting radiating through her. But beneath the sharp bite of pain, a strange, throbbing heat began to pool in her lower belly.
"Does it hurt?" Evan asked.
"It... it doesn't hurt," Elara gritted out. She was an Ashcroft; she wouldn't break over a single blow.
Evan didn't miss a beat. "Is that so? Then let's see how long you can keep that up."
He reached down and pulled her pajamas low, exposing the pale, rounded silk of her cheeks to the cool air. Then, he began in earnest. Smack! Smack! Smack!
The rhythm was relentless. Each blow left a blooming red handprint on her porcelain skin. Elara bit the pillow hard to stifle her moans. The pain was real—a sharp, stinging fire—but the context was everything. It was Evan's hand. It was his touch. She felt a bizarre sense of emotional warmth blooming alongside the physical ache. She was being "disciplined" by the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and the intimacy of it made her head swim.
As the skin grew hot and swollen, her cries turned from sharp gasps to low, rhythmic whimpers. She found herself arching her back into his hand, her body betraying her need for the very friction that caused the sting.
Finally, Evan stopped. He looked down at the reddened skin and felt a twinge of guilt. He reached out, his hand no longer striking, but gently stroking the heat he had created. "Does it hurt a lot?" he asked, his voice melting back into tenderness.
"No... it doesn't hurt," she whispered into the pillow.
Evan leaned down, turning her face toward him and cupping her cheek. He expected to see tears or resentment, but her eyes were blurred with a hazy, shimmering shyness.
"Did you actually enjoy that?" Evan asked, genuinely surprised. "Did you enjoy me spanking you, you little masochist?"
Elara let out a small, embarrassed whimper and buried her face back into the bedding. Evan sighed, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't go any further; if he did, she wouldn't be able to walk the streets to sell cakes tomorrow, and he didn't want to actually cause her harm.
"Forget it. That's enough for tonight. Go to sleep."
"Is it over?" Elara raised her head, her eyes showing a flicker of unfulfilled desire. She looked like she wanted the lesson to last forever.
"Why? Do you want more?" Evan joked, patting her hip. "How will you walk tomorrow if I keep going? We'll play some other time."
He blew out the candle, plunging the room into silver moonlight, and climbed into bed beside her. For the first time, they shared the same mattress, the same warmth. The night passed in a peaceful, heavy silence, the previous tension settling into a comfortable, shared bond.
In the early morning, Evan sat before the dressing table while Elara stood behind him, carefully combing his long, dark hair.
"I used to think long hair looked elegant in stories," Evan grumbled, "but dealing with it every day is a nightmare. Maybe I should just cut it short."
"You mustn't!" Elara cried, her comb pausing. "Your hair and skin are gifts from your parents. Cutting it is a sign of great mourning or even a death wish. You'd shock the whole village!"
Evan chuckled, looking at her reflection in the mirror. "I was only joking. Besides, as long as I have you to help me sort it out, it isn't that much of a trouble."
"I will help you every morning," Elara promised, her heart swelling.
Evan suddenly turned in the chair, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the soft curve of her stomach. "My lady smells like peaches and cream," he murmured, his voice muffled.
"My husband is acting like a spoiled brat," Elara laughed, stroking his head.
"I just want to be buried deep in you," Evan said, his voice dropping an octave. He pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the fabric over her belly, his tongue darting out for a second.
Elara let out a sharp yelp, her face turning crimson. "Evan! It tickles!"
"Let me stay like this for just a moment," he whispered.
After a few minutes of quiet intimacy, Evan stood up and pressed her into the chair. "Now, it's my turn to help you. Sit still, little wife."
"You? No, I can do it—"
"Sit," Evan commanded playfully, pressing her into the chair. He took the comb and began to work through her thick tresses with surprising gentleness.
Looking at her reflection—her face glowing with a happiness she had never dared to hope for—Elara felt a deep, soul-shaking peace. Her life was changing, blooming into something beautiful, all because of the man currently humming a soft tune behind her.