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“A baby elephant.” The suds had flattened slightly, and the steam was more diffuse. The room had a pearly haze.

“Or the two of us.”

Her eyes snapped back. He was sipping his wine, brows arched.

Her mouth went dry. “Together?”

“Mmm.” He nodded.

“You want to bathe together.” Her pulse surpassed gallop. It began to whir. “Because that’s how we ensure a hot soak for us both?”

“No, in fact, the tub’s all yours if you wish. I don’t need a hot soak. A tepid sponge bath will do the job.” He put down his glass. His eyes were hooded, and his lips curved. “I want to indulge a purely salacious impulse.”

“Oh.” She felt breathless. “What would that involve?”

“You tell me.”

Shyness gripped her so hard she could feel little pinpricks of anticipated rejection. “I’m not very imaginative.”

“Everyone’s imaginative.”

She looked at the tub, heart pounding. “Couldn’t you do the imagining?”

“I could,” he said. “Is that what you want? You won’t think me too officious, overconfident, overbearing, and arrogant?”

She looked at him. There was humor in his face, and something more.

“Insufferably arrogant,” she whispered.

“Say if you do.” His eyes were suddenly serious. “I’ll stop at a word.”

She gave a nod, and he was out of his chair. She caught another glimpse of his firm rear as he whipped off his nightshirt and sank into the tub. He went all the way under the water, then emerged, hair slicked back, soap dripping from his ear.

“Come here,” he commanded.

She went on unsteady legs.

“Get in.” He slung an arm over the side of the tub. Suds collected at his armpit. Glistening bubbles trapped themselves on the ledge of his collarbones. She rucked up her shift and stepped into the tub, hot water swirling around her sore, overstrained calves.

“Are you taking that off?” he asked, amused.

She flushed. “Shut your eyes.”

He complied, and for a moment, she stared at his angular face, its hard lines and the soft, sly curve of his mouth. The black silk of his lashes. Someone—not her—could write poetry about such a face.

He was also flushed, from the heat.

She pulled off her shift and sat, tangling with his legs, water lapping up to the tub’s rim.

“Now turn around,” he said, and she floated, trying to rotate with minimum contact.

His arm wrapped her middle, and he guided her, until she sat between his thighs.

“I’m going to unbraid your hair,” he said, with a raggedness to his voice that made her toes curl. She felt the gentle tugs as he set to work, separating the thick sections, moving up toward the roots. She was breathing deeply, sweat and steam beading on her cheeks.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day.” His fingers slid into her loosed tresses, combing and smoothing, stroking her scalp in slow circles. Time had no meaning. The steam was inside her now. She was hazed and drifting. He pushed the mass of hair over her shoulders and put his mouth on the nape of her neck.

She moaned and felt his smile on her skin before he pulled away. He kneaded her shoulders, and her neck, thumbs releasing the tense muscles along her spine. When he had her lolling with the relief of it, he reached over the side of the tub for the cloth and the soap. He soaped her with the same lavish thoroughness he’d devoted to massaging her aching back, lifting her arms one by one, turning her so he could lather her feet and calves. He held her gaze when he touched her breasts, and at her gasp, he let the soap slip and closed his hands on her hips. He towed her up his legs, until she straddled his waist, knees bumping metal.