Avan didn’t rush a single breath.
Didn’t blink when the robe slipped.
Didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t completely undone by the sight of her sinking into the water like she’d been carved for it.

But he also didn’t leer.
Never had.
He looked at her the way a man looks at a painting he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch — reverence threaded with quiet ache.

And then he smiled.

Slow.
British.
Devastating.

“Suspicious?” he echoed, stepping toward the counter where the champagne waited. “Imogen, if I were trying to seduce you with competence, you’d be in grave danger.”

The cork popped with a soft, clean release — elegant, controlled, like everything he did. He poured, the bubbles blooming up the glass in a golden shimmer, and when he came back to her, he crouched down beside the tub so they were eye-level.

He handed her the first glass, fingers brushing hers on purpose — gentle, grounding.

“Here you are, love,” he said quietly, voice warm enough to melt candle wax. “Your royal offering.”

She clinked her glass lightly against his, her smile wicked and soft at once.
He took a sip, but mostly he watched her — steam curling around her jawline, water catching the light along her collarbones, her eyes half-lidded in pure, earned pleasure.

And he felt something in his chest go quiet in the best possible way.

When she said it was the best night she’d had in months, something changed in his expression — not bigger, just truer. Something that slipped past all the polished control he wore like a second skin.

He reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
A single touch.
Feather-light.
Full of everything he didn’t dare force into words.

“I’m glad,” he murmured. “I wanted to give you a night where you weren’t performing a single thing.”

His thumb grazed the curve of her cheekbone, slow and tender.

“No expectations. No cameras. No narratives to protect.”
A softer breath.
“Just you. As you are.”

He let his gaze fall to the water, then back to her — warm, amused, affectionate.

“And if this is the best night you’ve had in months…” He leaned in a little closer, voice dropping into something rich and velvet-wrapped. “…then I’m only getting started.”

He stood just long enough to slide the small wooden stool closer, placing strawberries and chocolate within her reach like he was laying offerings at the feet of a goddess.

Then he settled beside the tub again, sleeves rolled up, forearms resting on the rim as he watched her soak in the candlelight.

“You look peaceful,” he said softly, studying her like the moment itself mattered. “I don’t see that often. I’d like to.”

A beat.
Then, with a half-smile that curled at the corner:

“Now tell me, Imogen — is the goddess accepting visitors tonight, or must I remain your humble attendant on the marble floor?”

The tease was warm, sweet, and threaded with the kind of affection that made the room feel even softer.

He didn’t push.
Didn’t assume.

He just let her see the choice reflected back at her —
in his gaze,
in his patience,
in the quiet warmth he offered like a place to land.

Imogen took a long, slow sip of the champagne he’d poured her—because of course she did—then leaned back against the edge of the tub with all the indulgent drama of someone who had absolutely ascended.

Her legs stretched out, one knee rising lazily from the water, steam curling like a halo. The candles flickered in her periphery. Her robe lay puddled somewhere on the tile. And Avan? Still crouched by the tub, sleeves rolled, reverent and dangerously handsome?

Yeah. She was thriving.

She arched a brow, let her lips curve into something playfully regal.

“Humble attendant?” she echoed, swirling the champagne in her glass like it was a goblet of nectar. “Mm. I don’t know, darling… that title has a nice ring to it.”

She gave him a mock-considering glance, eyes skimming the rolled sleeves, the slope of his shoulders, the way he was clearly doing everything in his power not to drown in her bathwater aura.

“The goddess does appreciate your offerings,” she added with a wink, plucking a strawberry from the tray and biting into it slowly—pure decadence. “But entry into the divine sanctuary is highly exclusive. Only the worthy are permitted.”

A pause.

Then—

Her eyes dropped to where his knees brushed the marble, and a wicked little grin tugged at her mouth.

“You’re getting dangerously close to being pulled in as-is, though,” she said, lowering her voice like a dare. “And let me tell you, Avan Khan… if you ruin those designer pants in the name of devotion, I will neither confirm nor deny it was entirely on purpose.”

Another beat. She leaned forward slightly, her hand reaching out to toy with the hem of his shirt.

“But,” she said sweetly, eyes shining with affection and something warmer underneath, “should you wish to, say… shed the mortal garments and join your goddess in her temple…”

Her thumb dragged lightly across his knuckles where they rested on the edge of the tub.

“…I wouldn’t exactly stop you.”

Then, feigning supreme disinterest, she reclined again like a queen made of candlelight and chaos, lifting her glass in toast.

“Choose wisely, mortal. There is limited space in the kingdom, and I don’t share my bubbles lightly.”

But behind the velvet flirtation was something softer—an invitation wrapped in humor, affection threaded through every word.

Because of course she wanted him in the water.

Of course she wanted his arms around her, his breath on her shoulder, his presence cutting through the quiet.

She just needed to make him earn it.

And if he didn’t move soon, she was absolutely going to reach out and drag him in herself.

Avan didn’t reach for another button.

He didn’t lean any closer.

He just looked at her — really looked — in that quiet, devastating way of his that always made the room feel smaller, warmer, more deliberate.

And then, with a soft exhale that curved into something amused and fond, he set both hands on the edge of the tub and rested his weight forward slightly, sleeves still rolled, candlelight sketching warm gold across his skin.

“You know what’s remarkable about you?” he said, voice low but steady. “You turn an ordinary moment into theatre without ever lifting your chin.”

His gaze drifted over her — not hungry, not rushed, just deeply aware of her every choice, her mischief, her quiet glow.

“And you do it,” he added, eyes lifting back to hers, “with the confidence of someone who already knows the ending.”

He dipped his fingers into the water — barely — just enough for the warmth to kiss his knuckles. He let the ripples travel toward her, slow and subtle.

“I could climb in right now,” he murmured, tone threaded with soft challenge. “Clothes abandoned somewhere on the marble. Steam fogging every mirror in this place.”

A beat.

“But you don’t actually want me to rush, do you?”

His thumb traced a gentle line along the rim of the tub, the motion tender, patient — maddeningly controlled.

“That’s the part you like,” he went on softly. “That I take my time. That I pay attention.”

He reached for a candle beside her, adjusting its angle so the flame illuminated her face more fully — a small, intimate gesture, almost reverent.

“You deserve to be looked at, Imogen,” he said, tone warm but grounded. “Properly. Not in passing. Not in photographs. Not in performance.”

Another beat.
Heat flickered between them — slow, steady, certain.

“So before you go dragging me in,” he continued, “I’m going to stand right here a little longer… and enjoy the view of a woman who finally looks like she’s breathing.”

His eyes softened, the teasing settling into something deeper.

“Then,” he added, voice dipping, “when you decide you want me in that water…”

A subtle smile curled the corner of his mouth.

“…you’ll only need to say my name.”

He didn’t move.
He didn’t rush.
He simply stayed close — sleeves rolled, candlelight warm on his hands — letting her feel the weight of being wanted without needing to be chased.

Imogen made a show of considering him.

She tilted her head, wet lashes lowered, one perfectly manicured finger tracing lazy circles on the rim of her champagne glass like she was weighing the importance of summoning a mortal into the presence of the divine.

Her voice, when it came, was pure mischief wrapped in velvet.

“So let me get this straight…” she drawled. “You show up with a five-star spa setup, light candles like you invented romance, give me chocolate and peace, and now you want me to break character first?”

She tsked under her breath — slow, regal, theatrical.

“I don’t know, Avan,” she sighed, sinking lower into the water with an exaggerated hum of luxury. “Feels a bit presumptuous. Gods don’t beg, you know. They receive.”

Steam curled around her collarbones, water lapping gently against her shoulders as she glanced over at him — sleeves rolled, elbows braced on the tub like he had all the time in the world and nothing better to do than watch her breathe.

And dammit, it worked.

He didn’t even move, and somehow she was the one flustered beneath her perfectly poised smirk.

She turned her face slightly away—just for a second—like she was giving him a reprieve, like she was still in full control. But her cheeks were warm, her heart beating a little too fast, and she knew he knew it.

Her fingers danced just barely along the surface of the water.

“You’re dangerously close to being too good at this,” she murmured, half to herself. “It’s not fair, really. All this… restraint.”

She leaned forward a little — not to beckon him in, no, just to shift her glass, fingertips grazing the stem with the grace of someone who had absolutely not just forgotten how to breathe.

Then she looked up at him again, her expression softer now. Still playful, still sparkling, but with that flicker of sincerity she only let sneak through when she meant it.

“And for the record…” Her voice lowered, velvet dipped in gold. “I do like that you take your time. I like that you don’t need the whole world to know what you’re doing to make it feel real.”

She let the silence sit for a beat. Two.

Then, with a slow, deliberate smile — the kind that said I’m choosing this, I’m choosing you — she set her glass aside, leaned back in the water like it was her throne, and said, lightly:

“Avan.”

Just his name. Nothing more.

But the way she said it — soft, sure, threaded through with invitation — it might as well have been a key turning in a lock.

She didn’t need to command. Didn’t need to reach.

She knew he’d come.

Because tonight was hers.

And so was he.

He didn’t move immediately. Not even when she said his name.
Instead, he let the sound of it hang in the humid air between them, savoring the way it fell from her lips—soft, claiming, inevitable.

He watched the way the candlelight caught the wet curve of her shoulder, the way the steam clung to the loose strands of hair escaping her bun. She was putting on a show, playing the untouchable deity, but he knew better. He saw the flush high on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat of the water. He saw the way her pulse jumped in the hollow of her throat when he didn’t look away.

“Gods don’t beg,” he repeated quietly, his voice a low, rough murmur that seemed to vibrate through the small space.

He finally pushed off the edge of the tub, standing to his full height for just a moment, letting his shadow stretch over her.

“But they do accept offerings.”

He took a step closer, slow and deliberate, just as she liked. He sank down onto his knees beside the porcelain rim, disregarding the damp tile against his jeans. He was close enough now to smell the scent he’d picked out for her—jasmine and something darker, sweeter—rising off the water.

His dark eyes locked onto hers, heavy lidded and focused solely on her.
“And you’re right, Imogen,” he said, reaching out. His hand hovered for a second before his knuckles grazed her cheek, tracing the path a drop of water had just taken down to her jawline. His touch was warm, solid. “I don’t need the world to know. The world is too loud. It gets in the way.”

He leaned in, resting his forearm on the edge of the tub, invading her space just enough to make the air thin.

“Restraint isn’t about holding back because I want to,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, catching the tremble she was trying to hide. “It’s about making sure that when I finally do break… you feel every second of it.”

A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the kind that usually signaled trouble.

“So,” he whispered, his face inches from hers now. “Am I breaking character? Or am I just giving the goddess exactly what she asked for?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew he wouldn’t get one—not in words, anyway.

He let his gaze drop to her mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat, heavy with intent, before he finally closed that last, agonizing inch of distance.

He kissed her slowly, deliberately. He kept it soft at first, a gentle pressure that tasted faintly of the champagne she’d been sipping and the humid, floral sweetness of the steam. He didn’t rush. He kissed her like he had hours, like the world outside the bathroom door had ceased to exist the moment she spoke his name.

When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against hers, his breath hitching just slightly—the only crack in his composure he’d allow her to see.

“You’re right,” he whispered, his voice rougher now, stripped of the teasing edge. His thumb swept across her cheekbone, catching a stray droplet of water. “Tonight is yours.”

He shifted his weight, his knees pressing harder into the bathmat as he reached into the water. He took her hand—the one she’d been using to trace patterns on her glass—and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her wet knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving hers.

Then, with an effortless, fluid motion, he released her hand and reached for the sponge floating near her hip.

Dunking the sponge and squeezing warm water over her shoulder, his touch firm and rhythmic. “Relax, Imogen. Let me take care of you.”

Imogen didn’t stand a chance.

Not when he stayed still like that—like a man made of patience and intention.
Not when he let her name linger in the air as if he were tasting it.
Not when he rose to full height, all shadow and devotion and quiet hunger.

So yes.
The loving glare was absolutely warranted.

She cut it at him the moment he knelt beside the tub—sharp, playful, all narrowed lashes and a little dramatic tilt of her chin.

A glare that meant How dare you tempt me like that.
A glare that meant You’re impossible and it’s working and I hate you for it.
A glare that meant You’re still not in this tub and I’m offended.
A glare that meant Don’t stop.

He touched her cheek, and the glare dissolved instantly—melting like sugar on hot marble. Her breath hitched in her throat, her lips parting under the slow brush of his thumb. The steam blurred the edges of the room, but he stayed crystal clear. Too clear.

And when he kissed her?

Oh, she melted.

Her fingers flexed against the water, then curled into the porcelain edge as her whole body softened into the warmth of his mouth. He kissed like he meant to ruin her—slow, reverent, devastating. Imogen sighed into him, her lips yielding, her shoulders sinking deeper beneath the water. Every moment he lingered was a little unraveling.

By the time he pulled back and rested his forehead on hers, she was useless.

Truly useless.

So obviously undone that she had no choice but to switch strategies.

The glare had crumbled. The deity act was hanging by a thread.

Which left the nuclear option:

Pouting.

She drew in a tiny breath—soft, wounded, absolutely performative—and let her bottom lip push out just the slightest bit. Her lashes lowered. Her expression tilted into that perfect, mischievous Are you really going to do this to me? face she’d perfected long before she’d learned how to pose on red carpets.

And she held it.
Right up until his kiss landed on her knuckles.

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach.

“Avan,” she whispered again, but this time it wasn’t a summons.

It was a confession.

He reached for the sponge. Warm water slid down her shoulder in a lazy, liquid path, and whatever composure she had left slipped under the surface with it.

Imogen blinked up at him, pout softening into something far more dangerous—sweetness.

“Take care of me, then,” she murmured, voice lower now, almost sulky, but threaded with all the affection she refused to hide anymore.

Her free hand rose from the water, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw, a barely-there touch—like she was trying to memorize him without interrupting anything he was doing.

“And for the record…” Her pout deepened, deliberate, devastating.
“If you’re going to melt me like that and keep pretending you don’t know I want you in here with me— you better start spoiling me until it’s even.”

But she didn’t move her hand away.

Didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

She sank into his care like it was the first soft thing she’d allowed herself all week, gaze locked on him, lips still warm from the kiss he’d taken his time giving her.

Pouting, yes.

But completely, beautifully his.

Avan let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan—a low vibration that seemed to ripple through the steam between them. He didn’t pull away from her touch. Instead, he leaned into it, turning his face to press a kiss into the wet palm of her hand, his lips lingering against her skin with a reverence that belied the darkness in his eyes.

“‘Even,’” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue in a dark, amused purr.
He caught her wrist, his thumb sweeping over the delicate bones there, before he finally pulled back just enough to look at her properly. That crooked, devastatingly British smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly how much it was affecting her.

“You have a wicked sense of accounting, darling,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that clipped, velvet timbre that always made the expansive bathroom feel suddenly intimate. “But you are mistaken about one thing. I’m not pretending not to know.”

He dipped the sponge back into the water, the movement slow and heavy with intent. The sound of the water shifting was the only noise in the room as he soaked it, preparing to make good on her demand.

“I am simply exercising a terrifying amount of restraint,” he said, lifting the warm weight of the sponge to her shoulder again. He squeezed it, watching the water cascade over her skin. “Because if I did climb in there with you, Imogen, I’m afraid the spoiling would stop, and the ruining would begin. And you did ask to be taken care of.”

His eyes locked on hers, dark and unyielding, challenging her to deny it.
“So,” he whispered, moving the sponge in a slow, hypnotic circle over her collarbone. “I accept the terms. I shall spoil you until the ledger is balanced. Though I warn you, love... I intend to be very thorough.”

Imogen’s breath caught—not dramatically, not performatively, but in that unguarded, involuntary way she only ever let happen with him.

He kissed her palm, and something inside her went molten.
Not because it was tender.
Not because it was careful.
But because it was his—that combination of devotion and danger he never apologized for.

Her fingers curled slightly against his cheek when he turned into her touch, as if her hand had a mind of its own. And when he smirked—that smirk—her stomach dipped like she’d missed a step on a staircase.

Wicked sense of accounting.
Terrifying amount of restraint.
Spoiling versus ruining.

God.

She felt each word in places words had no right reaching.

The warm water slid down her shoulder, slow and deliberate, and she couldn’t help the way her eyes fluttered half-shut at the sensation. He always touched like he was memorizing—mapping—writing a quiet thesis on the art of undoing her.

Her voice, when she found it, was softer. Lower. A little breathless around the edges.

“You make restraint sound like torture,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly to give him better access—not a demand, not a plea, just a quiet offering. “The slow kind.”

The sponge moved over her collarbone, his attention laser-focused, almost reverent. It made her feel… seen. Worshipped. Held.
And it disarmed her more effectively than any kiss could’ve.

Her hand slid from his cheek to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the soft, damp hair at his hairline. Not pulling him in. Not urging him closer.

Just… keeping him near.

“Thorough is good,” she whispered, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile—something softer, almost shy beneath the heat of it.
“Thorough sounds… fair.”

Her thumb brushed the edge of his ear, featherlight, as she met his eyes fully.

“But for the record,” she added, her tone dipping into that delicate blend of mischief and sincerity she only ever used with him, “you being this close and not in the tub is its own kind of torture.”

A tiny beat.
Barely a breath.
Then, quieter:

“And I’m not entirely convinced your version of spoiling is going to make things feel any more even.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth, then lifted again, soft and unguarded as warm water rolled down her skin under his touch.

“But I’m willing to let you try.”

Avan leaned into her touch instantly, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second as her fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck. It was a crack in the armor—a small, silent admission that for all his talk of restraint, he was just as tethered to her as she was to him.

When he opened his eyes, the playfulness was still there, but it was sharper now. Darker.

“Mutually assured destruction, then,” he murmured, turning his face to press a kiss against the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse. “Because I assure you, darling, looking at you like this—wet and open and looking at me as if I’m the only thing in the world—is a very specific kind of agony.”

He let the sponge slip from his hand. It sank into the water with a soft plop, forgotten.

He didn't need it anymore.

His hand replaced the sponge, his wet palm sliding from her shoulder to the back of her neck, mirroring her grip. His thumb swept over the sensitive skin behind her ear, a touch that was heavy with possession.

“And you have woefully little faith in my abilities,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, intimate and arrogant in that distinctly British way, “if you think I need to be submerged to balance the scales.”

He leaned in, invading her space until he was all she could see, all she could breathe.

“‘Fair’ is a bit pedestrian for us, don’t you think?” He tilted his head, his lips hovering just inches from hers, teasing her with the distance. “I don’t want to make it even, Imogen. I want to make it so you can’t remember why you were pouting in the first place.”
He brushed his nose against hers, a soft, coaxing friction.

“Now,” he breathed. “Close your eyes. Let me convince you.”

Imogen felt that kiss to her wrist like a spark traveling straight up her arm—unfair, indecent, perfectly aimed.
He always aimed well.

And God, the way he said mutually assured destruction like it was a flirtation instead of a warning?
It made something warm and reckless unfurl under her ribs.

His hand slid to the back of her neck—firm, soaking, claiming—and she didn’t even try to hide the soft inhale that escaped her. If anything, she leaned into it, letting her body drift closer through the water as if pulled by gravity.

“Oh, see—” she murmured, her voice honey-slick with amusement as her fingers curled a little tighter in his hair, “this is why you’re dangerous. You talk about agony like it’s something you enjoy.”

Her lips brushed the corner of his jaw, featherlight, quick, maddeningly teasing—payback delivered in a whisper of skin.

“And you absolutely do,” she added, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, her smirk curving slow and wicked. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

He crowded closer. She let him.

His arrogance—intimate, quiet, British as sin—swept through her like heat.
He didn’t need to be in the water to unmake her.
He knew it.
She knew it.

But teasing him was too much fun to stop now.

“Not submerged, hm?” she purred, dragging her nails lightly at the base of his neck in a way that made his breath stutter. “Bold of you. Very confident. Very you.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, blatantly, purposefully.

“But you know…” she sighed dramatically, leaning back just an inch, letting the water pull her hairline toward the porcelain edge, “if you’re going to claim you can ruin me from out there? You’re setting a very high bar, Avan.”

The smirk she gave him was sinful—slow, taunting, made of silk and challenge.

“And I am a goddess,” she reminded him, teasing lilt wrapping around the words. “Tricky creatures. Hard to impress.”

He brushed his nose against hers—soft, coaxing, lethal.

Her eyes fluttered half-shut, then opened again, darting to his lips one more time.

“Convince me,” she whispered.

But instead of closing her eyes like he asked, she gave him a look—bright, wicked, playful—tilting upward at the corners.

“Oh no,” she breathed, voice a warm, teasing laugh against his mouth. “You're not getting out of that kiss by assigning me homework.”

Her fingers tightened in his hair, drawing him the slightest, delicious fraction closer.

“You want my eyes closed?”
She let her lips ghost against his, barely a touch.
“Earn it.”