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“Normally, I’m the clean freak.” He shakes his head slightly. “But I’d take sweaty, disgusting sex with you any day, Alice.”

“You would?”

“Yeah. But tonight, we’ll do whatever you want.”

He takes my hand and leads me out of the room.

We climb the stairs, and I want to take everything in—the neat lines, the open space, the calm order of his house—but my stomach is squirming and dancing at the thought of what’s about to happen.

We step into the bathroom, my skin prickling with anticipation. Warm light glows from the low-hanging bulbs. Large potted plants stand in the corners, a giant yucca branching over a freestanding bath. Rustic wooden shelves. Plush beige towels. The whole room is drenched in rich ambience that only adds to the excitement curling through me.

Owen rolls his sleeves up and turns on the taps, water rushing into the tub as he selects a bottle from the shelf and squirts a generous amount of something beneath the stream.

He places the bottle back on the shelf before returning to me.

“Now, where was I?” he murmurs as he resumes unbuttoning my shirt.

I slip my arms free and let the material drop to the floor. His fingers trail down the underside of my arms, and a shiver races through me.

He’s looking at me like he’s memorising me, his gaze roaming slowly over my skin as though he wants to drink in every inch.

“Let’s lose these, shall we?” he says softly as he unfastens my trousers and slips them down my legs.

I step out of them, tugging my socks off at the same time, trying not to think about the fact that I wore my lucky socks today.

The ones with the pink hearts on them.

Thank God I did.

Owen steps closer, kissing me gently as he murmurs, “Ready?”

I nod, and he reaches behind me to unclasp my bra. It slips to the floor, and all I can think about is that day I took him to the beach, when he told me he liked to be in control, and I sniggered and made some lame joke. But now I realise he wasn’t kidding. And then he’s pulling down my underwear, kissing my face, my neck, my shoulders until he pulls back and takes my hand.

I should feel embarrassed, being naked in front of Owen for the very first time, but my desire is too great. The feeling that this is meant to be, that we were always meant to be this way, overrides all the nerves and awkwardness.

“Get in,” he says quietly.

He squeezes my hand as I step into the bath, the heat immediately soaking into my muscles, easing away the tension from the day.

Owen kneels beside the tub and wets a sponge before reaching for a bottle on the shelf. He lathers the sponge in soap, warm oriental scents rising with the steam curling through the room.

And then he washes me, lifting my arms, letting the water roam over my skin. Every touch from him sets off tiny little sparks low in my stomach. He takes great care washing my neck, my shoulders before moving lower, over my breasts.

I bite my lip as the sponge travels over my nipples.

“Relax,” he says, his voice smoky and soft.

I sink further into the water while he washes my stomach before lifting one leg from the bath and running the sponge slowly down its length until he reaches my foot.

And even here, he’s careful. Controlled.

Washing between my toes with the same concentration he applies to everything else in his life.

Owen does nothing carelessly.

Not his clothes.

Not his garden.