Page 142 of My Real Love Affair

I checked the bath. It was almost full, steam rising from the surface.

“Come here,” I said softly.

She did, moving into my space with a trust that made my chest ache. I took her hand and turned her around, finding the zipper of her dress. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of you.” I slowly lowered the zipper, my knuckles brushing her spine. “You took care of me today. Put sunscreen on my back. Made me laugh. Kept me company. Now it’s my turn.”

“I remember you putting sunscreen on me,” she joked softly.

The dress slipped off her shoulders. I helped her step out of it. Hung it carefully on the back of the door so it wouldn’t wrinkle.

She stood there in just her panties. I took a moment to appreciate her. The curve of her waist. The softness of her skin. The way she looked at me with a mix of vulnerability and desire.

I pressed a kiss to her shoulder. Then her neck. Then her collarbone. She made a small sound, her hands finding my arms for balance.

“Just let me take care of you,” I murmured against her skin. “Please.”

I pushed down her panties, kneeling in front of her and fighting the urge to put my face between her legs. I wanted to dine on her. Devour her.

But I wouldn’t.

I stood up and took her hand. I guided her to the tub. She stepped in carefully, sighing as the hot water enveloped her.

“Good?” I asked.

“Perfect.” She sank deeper, closing her eyes. “This is exactly what I needed.”

I sat on the edge of the tub, just watching her for a moment. She looked like she was about to crumble. Like whatever she was holding in was taking everything she had to keep contained.

“Relax,” I told her, pushing a strand of hair back from her face. “I’ll come back down in an hour.”

Her eyes flew open. “You’re leaving?”

“Just giving you some space. Some time to yourself.” I kissed her forehead. “Take your time. Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’m fine.”

I shook my head. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

I knew women liked wine and candles with their baths. And music.

I sprinted up to the bar. My hand hesitated for a split second over the variety of bottles. I grabbed the Burgundy. It was what she needed to help whatever burden she was suddenly carrying.

“Mr. Bancroft?” Claire materialized like a polite ghost, napkin folded over her arm. “Do you need something?”

“Candles,” I cut in, breathless. “Whatever you’ve got. And music. Something soft and soothing. Maybe jazz.”

Her brows lifted a millimeter—professional restraint—but she nodded and vanished toward the galley. I snagged a long-stemmed glass and tucked the bottle under my arm. Claire returned with a small box.

“Thank you,” I said.

“The music will start soon. Would you like it throughout?”

“Just the state room is fine,” I told her. “Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

I wrinkled my nose. “You’re a woman.”