Love Me, Mikayla

XVII

Could you please give quick votes and comments bc I need this encouragement to write the next chapter. I have it in my mind. Please, be quick. I wanna give the next update asap.
. . .

MIKAYLA

. . .

The door of the bathroom clicks open, the sound being loud enough to be heard by me.

I keep my eyes down, folding the dried clothes. The fresh scent of his body wash spreads around and I end up enjoying the freshness of it.

He walks ahead, doing I do not know what. Then he comes behind me and takes me in an embrace. His warm body flushes against mine and I feel the cold droplets falling over my shoulder that makes me gasp.

"Thank you," he says near my ear, kissing my cheek.

I blink, taking a deep breath. "Are you dressed?" I ask instead, looking at him over my shoulder and I realize how close our faces are. I try not to react vigorously over it.

Calm down, dumb heart, calm down!

But it seems impossible when our nose lips almost brush and his head is tilted before mine as if he's ready to kiss me anytime. The damp locks of his golden hair have fallen before his sapphire eyes and he resembles a cherub of soft fantasy when he smiled at me.

This man.

"Does it matter?" He asks instead, not even trying to pull away.

He rejoices in our closeness, looking into my eyes as he speaks. Meanwhile, I'm trying not to melt into nothing at his feet. I don't like his sweet gestures and the innocent look in his eyes. They attack my heart.

"It does. Because I'm not used to beholding your naked glory," I mutter with a roll of my eyeballs, and he chuckles. I overlook the beautiful sound of it.

"Okay yeah, I'm half-naked, so what?" He leaves me, stepping back and grabbing the washed towel from the pile of clothes and using it on his head. He didn't even have to. There are more towels but he just likes to get with me in everything.

I realize my net dupatta is slightly wet because of him and so is my shoulder.

If I hadn't been calm this morning, I think his chest would have borne the long marks of my deadly nails.

"Aren't you uncomfortable?" I ask, honestly wondering if he doesn't because he is shy, remember?

I continue folding the clothes, putting them aside. They're usually his clothes.

"No. You're my wife, why should I be uncomfortable?" He ruffles his hair, sitting on the bed beside the clothes and looking up at me.

I steal a glance at his face, dragging my gaze back to the work, not wishing to look at his chest. He is alluring. Like an angel. Like the masterpiece of Micheal Angelo. Like the gold of Ophir. Like the fruit in the Garden of Eden. Like the rays of dawn. Like the stars of heaven. He is all what we call beautiful and heavenly and alluring.

"I don't know, I just thought that," I admit, making him chuckle.

"What about you? You're not uncomfortable, right?" He stops ruffling his hair, keeping a hand over the towel as he peeks at me through his wet and inky eyelashes.

Cute.

"No," I almost whisper, "Because it's not your habit."

"Right." He gets up and leans in again to kiss my forehead as he leaves. I release a deep breath, still feeling the touch of his lips.