Her breath hitched.
I took her hand and led her toward the tub. Steam curled around us, wrapping her in warmth and scent. I steadied her as she stepped in, the water rising around her calves, her thighs, her hips. She sank down with a sigh that punched straight through my chest.
“That good?” I murmured.
She closed her eyes, letting her head tip back against the rim. “You have no idea.”
I knelt beside the tub, ignoring the way the floor dug into my knees, and rolled up my sleeves.
“Sit up,” I said gently. “Let me see you.”
Her lids fluttered open. She shifted, turning slightly toward me, arms resting on the edge. Loose strands of hair clung damply to her neck.
I dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it out, and touched it to her shoulder. She flinched—not from pain, but from sensation, every line of her body tensing, then easing as the heat soaked into sore muscles.
“You don’t have to—” she began.
“I want to.” I dragged the cloth slowly along the curve of her shoulder, down her arm, over the small raised ridges of scars. “Let me.”
She went quiet, her cheeks flushing deliciously.
I worked in silence for a while. Water lapped gently at the sides of the tub as I bathed her, every touch an exploration. The back of her neck, where tension always lived. The line of her collarbone, where I’d wanted to put my mouth too many times to count. The elegant shape of her wrist, fragile and deceptively strong.
Her breathing changed, growing deeper, more uneven. Every time my fingers brushed skin instead of cloth, a little spark jumped between us.
“Rydian,” she said eventually, voice low. “This is… cruel.”
At my next touch, a sound broke from her, half exasperated, half wild. “You?—”
“Lean forward,” I instructed.
She did, arms folding on the rim so she could rest her head on them. The movement bared her back to me—tension-strung muscles, fine lines of strength, soft curves that invited me closer. I let my palm follow the path the cloth had taken, the touch a bare whisper over damp skin.
She shivered.
It turned into a soft, involuntary sound when I found another knot and worked it loose.
“Better?” I asked.
She didn’t answer with words, just melted into my hands.
I took my time with her back, cataloging every inch with my touch, my mind. When I finally let my hands skim down along her sides, just above the waterline, her breath stuttered.
“Still with me?”
She nodded against her arms.
“Good.” I leaned in a little closer, letting my mouth hover near her ear. “Because I’m nowhere near done.”
I set the cloth aside, dipped my fingers into the warm water, and let my hands explore more boldly. Over the curve of her shoulder. Down the slope of her spine. Along the edge ofher ribs, where the rise and fall of each breath felt like a prayer under my palms.
She shifted restlessly in the water, thighs pressing together. Magic shivered under her skin, a low, restless hum that synced with the thrum of my own.
“You’re shaking,” I murmured.
“You’re torturing me,” she shot back, voice frayed.
“Not torture,” I said. My fingers traced idle patterns on her hip, stroking slow, lazy circles. “This is worship.”
