The hot water creates a liquid barrier between our bodies, but my knees bracket his thighs like parentheses around an unfinished sentence. This position rewrites every previous encounter we’ve had, and the realization hits me with the force of divine intervention: I’m driving this particular brand of madness now. Or at least I’m holding the steering wheel, which in the twisted mathematics of our relationship, counts as revolutionary.

The heat has worked its magic on muscles I’ve been clenching since puberty decided to make me everyone’s favorite disappointment. Every knot unravels under the water’s insistence, leaving me defenseless against what comes next.

“You’re already wet.” Paul’s mouth moves against my throat like he’s writing his autobiography on my skin, fingers sliding between my thighs with the confidence of someone who’s memorized the owner’s manual. “And I don’t mean from the bath.”

The blush that attacks my face could power a small city. I duck my head, but there’s nowhere to hide when you’re naked in a bathtub with someone who treats your embarrassment like foreplay.

“You can’t just say things like that,” I manage, though my voice has gone traitorously breathy, like I’m auditioning for a role I’ve already gotten.

“Why not?” His thumb draws lazy circles on my inner thigh, close enough to where I need him that I might actually combust from proximity alone. “It’s the truth, little wolf.”

“Because it’s embarrassing.” The admission costs me something, but honesty is apparently the currency we’re trading in tonight.

“Your body responding to mine isn’t embarrassing.” He pulls back, forcing eye contact with those silver eyes that should come with a warning label. “It’s exactly what I want.”

I crash my mouth against his before he can continue cataloging my physiological responses like some kind of erotic scientist. The kiss starts like a question—tentative, exploratory, my lips learning the geography of his desire. But he lets me lead without hijacking the narrative, and his restraint transforms me into someone brave enough to deepen the kiss, tasting coffee and hunger and the particular flavor of want that only shows up at three AM or in bathtubs.

My hand disappears beneath the water’s surface, fingers wrapping around him with the kind of determination usually reserved for Black Friday shopping. The groan that erupts from his throat vibrates through our connected mouths like bass through a nightclub floor.

He’s impossibly hard in my palm—thick and heavy with the kind of need that makes powerful men sign terrible treaties. I stroke him with deliberate slowness while studying his face like it’s a masterclass in masculine undoing.

“Morgan.” My name sounds like he’s been gargling gravel and prayers.

“Shh.” I twist my wrist the way his body has taught mine he prefers, and his head falls back against porcelain surrender.

This is what gods look like when they remember they’re mortal.

The tendons in his neck strain like violin strings about to snap. Power floods my veins—intoxicating, unfamiliar, the kind that makes ordinary women overthrow kingdoms. Watching this apex predator fall apart under my inexperienced hands feels like discovering fire while everyone else is still eating raw meat.

His hips buck beneath the water, chasing friction I deliberately withhold by slowing my strokes to geological pace.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, little wolf.” His voice has gone subterranean, scraping against frequencies only bats and broken hearts can hear.

“Maybe I like danger,” I whisper against his ear, applying pressure that makes his whole body seize.

His fingers dig into my hips—warning and worship tangled together like teenagers in a backseat. I bring him to the edge three times, reading his body’s tells like a poker player with X-ray vision, then pulling back just as his breathing stutters toward release.

Each denial shreds his control a little more, silver bleeding into his eyes like mercury poisoning in reverse.

“Enough.” The word tears from him like confession under torture. “I need to be inside you.”

“Do you?” I tilt my head, performing consideration while my hand maintains its torturous rhythm, conducting an orchestra of his undoing.

This is what victory feels like—watching titans kneel because you asked nicely.

The water laps against my breasts with each movement, liquid silk against skin that’s forgotten how to be anything but hypersensitive. I clench around him intentionally, and his eyes roll back like slot machines hitting jackpot.

“Look at you,” Paul manages through silver-consumed eyes. “So beautiful like this.”

The word detonates something in my chest. Beautiful. Twenty-three years of being told my body was a mistake, and he says it like stating gravity exists.

“Say it again,” I demand, increasing my pace with the determination of someone with something to prove.

“Beautiful.” He pulls me down harder. “Every single inch of you.”

We race toward the edge together, and this time I don’t stop. We shatter in unison—my body clenching around him as he pulses heat through me in waves that feel like answered prayers.

We stay connected in the cooling water, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air like it’s the last oxygen on Earth. My thighs shake from exertion, but moving would mean admitting this moment isn’t permanent.

“I missed you,” I confess, the words escaping before my brain can file the proper paperwork to stop them.

His arms tighten around me, erasing any remaining space between us like distance personally offended him.

“Then imagine how I feel, little wolf.” His voice roughens like he’s paying by the syllable. “Being away from you is becoming impossible.”