The Lingering Touch of Morning

Unwind Chapter One: The Lingering Touch of Morning

Curran stood at the back door, coffee warming his hand, only the soft spill of the waterfall into the pond stirred the morning's quiet stillness. He wore his favourite robe - deep navy silk, loose and open - and nothing beneath. His skin was smooth, freshly shaved that morning - a quiet ritual that left him bare, clean, and aware of every breath. The soft weight between his thighs gleamed with a subtle sheen, catching the shifting light.

The house was still. Outside, late summer sun slanted across the patio, brushing the dew from the carefully planted bushes and setting the garden aglow. The season had just begun to turn. The harvest was in. The Beaujolais Nouveau would be ready. It was, he decided, the perfect time to take her away.

He'd risen early for a reason. Jane's birthday was coming up, and he wanted to do more than flowers and dinner. He wanted to mark it. Celebrate her. Celebrate them. Something indulgent. Intimate. Beyond the usual.

He'd been searching for a while - something private but not formal, elegant but not decadent. Somewhere with water and warmth, soft corners, secret rooms. And then he'd found it.

Unwind. A couples-only retreat in the Beaujolais region, nestled within the grounds of a secluded château. No fixed schedules, no group therapy, no curated packages. Just wine, massage oils, velvet lounges, and old stone tubs steaming under vines. A place where boundaries blurred and curiosity could roam. A place where hands, mouths, and minds could explore each other with the thrill of rediscovery.

He booked it.

Three nights. This Friday.

The confirmation had pinged to his phone moments ago. Now, with the last sip of his coffee and the light warming the tiles beneath his feet, he waited to see her face when he told her.

He didn't wait long.

Jane's footsteps were soft, but confident. She entered the kitchen newly showered, her hair towel-dried and curling lightly at the ends. Her robe was pale satin, rose-pink with black edging, tied lazily at her waist. The fabric hugged and whispered with every movement, revealing the shape of her hips, the shadow of her breasts. Her skin, like his, was freshly shaved - legs smooth, sex bare beneath the drape of silk.

"Morning," she said, bright-eyed and already watching him closely. "You're up early."

"Had something on my mind."

"Oh?" She stepped in close and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek between his shoulders. "That glint in your eye says it's more than toast and coffee."

He handed her his phone.

She took it, brows lifting slightly as she scrolled. The photo on-screen showed warm stone, candlelit archways, vines creeping over shuttered balconies, and two wine glasses balanced on the edge of a steaming tub.

Her smile spread. "A château?"

"Beaujolais."

"Unwind," she read aloud. "Couples only. No clocks. No pressure." She paused.

"No rules?"

Curran grinned. "Only the ones we make."

"You booked it?"

"This morning."

"When do we leave?"

"Friday."

She studied him. "You're serious."

"Always."

Jane scrolled again, then looked up at him with a softness he recognised and loved. "You're very good at birthdays."

"It's not my only skill."

She reached up and kissed him, lips soft but full of promise. Her hands slid beneath his robe, fingers tracing his chest, then lower still, fingertips brushing the base of his stomach. "You're smooth," she noted, approving.

"So are you."

"It takes one to know one."

He stepped forward and kissed her again, deeper this time. She responded with a little sound, low in her throat. Then she stepped back, her eyes teasing.

"Put the mug down."

He did.

She took a slow step toward him and let her robe slip slightly, satin parting to reveal the upper curve of her breast. She ran her fingers along his chest, down his stomach, pausing only briefly before dropping to her knees.

Her hands wrapped around him, stroking him to full hardness before her tongue flicked out, tracing him from root to tip. Her mouth enveloped him, wet and warm, and she sucked him with slow, deliberate rhythm.

Curran braced himself against the wall, hips twitching. Her lips slid over him again and again, one hand massaging his balls, the other firm around his base. She looked up once, catching his eye, and he groaned aloud.

She pulled back, licking him slowly before rising.

"I'm not finished with you yet."

She took his hand and backed toward the table.

She climbed up, the robe falling from her shoulders. She lay back, legs parting, her body already glistening, wet and open.

Curran stepped in close, bent over her, and kissed her belly, her breasts, her neck. His hand slid between her thighs, fingers parting her as he leaned in, licking her with slow, deep strokes. Her hips rose to meet him, her hands gripping the table's edge.

When her moans grew sharper, she tugged at him, and he rose to meet her mouth. She guided him inside, his cock sliding deep into her warmth, and they gasped together.

They moved in rhythm - her hands clutching his back, his hips thrusting, her fingers now between them, circling her clit. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in tighter, moaning his name in that breathless, breaking voice that always pushed him over the edge.

She came first, body arching, thighs trembling. He followed, buried in her, pouring into her with a guttural groan, their breath hot on each other's faces.

For a long moment, they didn't speak.

Then, still joined, Jane smiled.

"So," she said, breathless, "what are we packing?"

Curran kissed her shoulder and smiled.

"Your red heels, the box of toys... and whatever else the mood demands."