Black lace.
Also soaked.
Also clinging.
Cyprian's amber veins flare slightly brighter.
"These as well," he says, his voice rough.
"You're very bossy when you're in provider mode."
"I am ensuring your comfort."
"That's what I said. Bossy."
His chest rumbles.
But he doesn't argue.
He just hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear and slides them down with the same careful, deliberate gentleness, his claws never once touching my skin.
I'm completely naked now.
Sitting on the edge of a massive soaking tub in a penthouse bathroom while an eight-hundred-year-old gargoyle kneels in front of me, his hands resting on my thighs, his amber eyes glowing soft gold.
"The water is ready," he says.
I glance at the tub.
It's full now, steam rising from the surface, the water a deep, mineral-rich blue-green that smells faintly of volcanic sulfur and something herbal I can't quite identify.
"Did you add something to the water?" I ask.
"Mineral salts. They will help with muscle recovery."
"You're very thorough."
"You deserve thorough."
My chest aches.
Not from pain.
From something else entirely.
I slide into the water.
The heat is immediate and overwhelming, wrapping around my frozen body like a full-body hug. I sink down until the water reaches my shoulders, my head resting against the smooth marble edge, and let out a long, shaky breath.
"Holy shit," I murmur.
"Better?"
"So much better."
Cyprian doesn't leave.
He stays kneeling beside the tub, his frame folded into a position that should be uncomfortable but somehow isn't. His hands rest on the marble edge, his amber eyes tracking every movement I make.
