Hunter’s breath leaves him in one sharp exhale.
I’m standing there in the teal set—the one he described to me once in a half-broken whisper, not knowing I remembered every word. Teal lace, delicate and daring, barely holding me in. The straps kiss my shoulders. The panties are cut high, a perfect match. All for him.
His eyes flare like I just handed him the sun.
“You remembered,” he murmurs, voice rough, reverent.
“Course I did,” I say, stepping closer. “I listen, Thor.”
That name makes him swallow hard.
He steps into the water, fully bare, and I’m already throbbing as he pulls me into his lap without a word.
Teal lace and all.
Steam rises. Skin presses. And when I straddle him, slick and soaked and breathless, I whisper in his ear:
“I wore it for you. I’m yours.”
His hands clench on my thighs. His mouth finds my neck.
“And I’m yours, Luna. Every part.”
The hot tub swirls around us, the jets humming low like a secret. I slide into the water beside him, steam rising between our bodies, every inch of my skin tingling from anticipation—and from the memory of the way he looked at me when the coat dropped.
Hunter stretches one arm along the back edge of the tub, then pulls me closer so I’m nestled against his side, skin brushing skin. I can feel his heartbeat. Or maybe it’s mine.
For a while, we just sit. Let the water soothe us. Let the silence speak. Then I break it.
“I know we started this wearing masks…” I trail off, turning slightly to look at him. His eyes are steady, open. Real. “But the funny thing is, I feel like I can be more myself with you than I’ve ever been.”
He reaches up and brushes a soaked strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear with a kind of reverence that makes my heart ache.
“That’s all I ever want you to be,” he says softly. “Yourself.”
I lean in and kiss him. It starts tender. Honest. But that electricity—that wild, magnetic pull we’ve always had—sparks fast. His fingers slip around my hip, anchoring me. I moan into his mouth, tasting need and promise and a little bit of danger.
I slide my hand down the hard planes of his chest, down his abs, the water rippling with every inch.
When I find him—thick, hard, already growing for me—I wrap my hand around him slowly.
His breath catches.
“Faith,” he warns, voice wrecked.
“Yeah?” I whisper, lips brushing his.
“Kiss me.”
I stroke him under the water as our lips collide for a few moments. Then I pull back, slow and steady, watching the tension build in his jaw, his chest rising faster. Then, without another word, he stands—water cascading off his body—and I kneel in front of him in the tub, water lapping at my shoulders, and take him in my mouth.
He lets out a growl that echoes through the steam.
I lick, suck, use my hand to guide the rest. I love watching him fall apart, the way he looks down at me with that mix of awe and hunger like he still can’t believe I’m here.
“Fuck, baby,” he hisses. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”
I pull off with a pop, licking him one last time before I say, “Not yet. I want you to taste me.”
