The Peninsula Beverly Hills
 

The elevator doors parted with a soft chime, spilling warm, golden light across the deep carpeted hallway.
Imogen stepped out slowly, heart thudding once—just once—but hard enough to echo in her chest.

Suite 325. The rooftop villa.
She knew this place. Everyone in the industry did.
The kind of hotel where privacy wasn’t a commodity—it was a guarantee.
Where staff didn’t just look away; they forgot what they saw.

Her heels were still on from the afternoon’s press wrap, her hair tied in a loose knot, her bag hanging off one shoulder. She felt tired in that heavy, post-tour way—like she’d been a thousand different people in six months and was only now remembering how to be herself again.

The key card Avan had couriered to her door hours ago was warm between her fingers.

She didn’t know what to expect when she pushed the door open.

But she did know this:
Her contract with Devon ended tonight.
And Avan knew exactly what that meant.

The lights were low when she stepped inside, the room washed in a soft amber glow from hidden sconces and the Los Angeles dusk bleeding in through sheer curtains. The suite smelled faintly of bergamot and cedar—his scent, unmistakably. He’d been here recently.

Her breath caught.

The first thing she saw was the marble bathroom—doors wide open, like an invitation.

Candles lined the tub’s edge in careful symmetry, all unlit.
Dozens of them—ivory pillars, warm-toned jars, slim tapers.
A small wooden stool sat beside the oversized soaking tub, stacked with bath oils, rosewater cleanse, face masks, scalp treatments, massage balms.
Spa slippers. A plush robe folded over a chair.

He hadn’t filled the bath.
He’d left the choice for her.

Her throat tightened.

On the vanity counter lay a handwritten note, folded once, her name written in his slanted, unbothered handwriting.

She picked it up with careful fingers.

Love—
Thought you might like a night where no one needs you.
Bath’s yours to run. Candles if you want them. I’m getting champagne.
Take your time.
—A.

Her heart did that thing it always did with him—tightened, softened, opened all at once.

She leaned her hip against the marble, fingers brushing the edges of the bath oils.
Every detail was so unmistakably him—quiet, thoughtful, never pushing, always offering.

And he’d arrived early.
Set all this up.
Left so she wouldn’t feel crowded or watched.

A staycation.
A celebration.
A pause button she’d never once given herself.

She slipped off her heels, letting them thud softly against the expensive rug. The silence around her was plush, serene, the kind that only came from rooms built high above the city’s noise.

Somewhere down on Wilshire, horns honked.
Somewhere else, paparazzi shouted someone else’s name.
But up here?

Just candles.
Just steam waiting to happen.
Just peace.

She set the note down gently, smoothing it with her fingertips.
Her contract was done.
The lie of her relationship with Devon was almost over.
And Avan—
Avan had given her the first hour of her freedom wrapped in softness.

Instead of going further into the bathroom, she drifted into the main room—running her hand lightly along the back of the velvet sofa, trailing her fingers over the cool glass of the coffee table, taking in the quiet luxury he’d chosen for her.
She paused at the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing down at the glowing spine of the city—LA stretching wide and endless beneath her like a promise she didn’t have to outrun.

She was still standing there, breathing in the calm he’d created, when she heard the suite door unlock behind her.

Her heart rose instantly—recognition before thought.

She turned as Avan stepped inside, the soft click of the door closing marking his arrival as surely as his silhouette did.

He carried a small bag in one hand—champagne, probably—his expression shifting the moment he saw her.

Imogen’s lips curved, warm and soft.

“Hi,” she said quietly, the word threaded with something that felt like relief. “You’re back.”

Her voice wasn’t performed or polished.
It was hers—
and she offered it to him first.

Avan froze for half a second when he saw her.

Not because he was surprised she was there—he’d sent the key himself, had chosen this room with her in mind, had spent the last hour arranging the bath oils in the exact order he thought she might reach for them—but because of how she looked standing in the middle of the suite.

Barefoot.
Hair loose and soft around her face.
Her guard nowhere in sight.

Like she’d finally stepped out of the world that kept trying to script her.

The bag in his hand—champagne, strawberries, a bar of dark chocolate he’d grabbed on instinct—suddenly felt too loud, too clumsy compared to the quiet she’d wrapped around herself.

Her voice—Hi. You’re back.—hit him with an ache he tried not to show.

He shut the door gently behind him, careful not to break the calm he’d built for her. “Yeah,” he murmured, slipping the keycard into his pocket. “Didn’t want you waiting long.”

He crossed the room at an easy pace, not rushed, not hesitant—just sure. He stopped a couple feet from her, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough to let her choose the rest of the distance.

She looked… softer. Warmer. Untethered in a way he rarely got to see.

His eyes flicked briefly to the unlit candles, then back to her. “You found the note, then,” he said, a small, understated smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Good.”

He held up the bag slightly. “Figured we should mark the occasion. Champagne for your freedom. Chocolate for the mood. And—” His tone gentled, teasing only in the smallest degree. “—I got the rose one you pretend not to like but always finish first.”

Her expression shifted—something tender, something that made his chest feel too tight—and he set the bag down carefully on the table.

Then he looked at her properly.

Really looked.

Six months of touring and interviews and pretending had carved a certain tiredness into her posture, but right now, with the city glowing behind her and no masks left to hold up, she was breathtaking in a way that had nothing to do with fame.

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate—lifting a hand but stopping just shy of her cheek, giving her every chance to lean in or step back.

“You look…” His voice trailed, the word too small for the sight of her. He shook his head once, softly. “Peace suits you.”

His thumb brushed the air near her jaw—ghosting, offering, never assuming.

“I wanted tonight to be quiet,” he said. “No noise. No demands. Just… whatever you need.” His eyes met hers, steady, warm. “You’ve earned that much.”

He let the silence sit, let the weight of the room settle around them. The candles, the bath oils, the wide bed turned down, the soft robe waiting—it was all there for her, not for him.

And the way she was looking at him—like he was the first person she’d chosen freely in a long time—made something inside him loosen.

Finally, he spoke again, softer. Real.

“Imogen,” he murmured, “you’re free tonight. You don’t owe the world a damn thing. Not a headline. Not a performance.” His voice dropped even lower, gentle as his gaze. “You don’t owe me anything either. You’re here because you chose to be.”

He reached out then, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear—light as breath.

“And I’m very, very glad you did.”

A beat.

Then, with that quiet half-smile he only ever wore for her—
“Come here, love. Let me say hello properly.”

She didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

The moment he said Come here, love, a warmth bloomed in her chest so quickly she almost laughed at herself. Months of touring, months of smiling for cameras and rehearsing answers and pretending she didn’t miss him like oxygen — and all it took was two steps across a quiet suite to feel like herself again.

She crossed the room with an easy, loose kind of happiness she hadn’t felt in far too long. No choreography. No posture. Just bare feet and soft air and him.

When she slid into his arms, it wasn’t dramatic — it just felt right. Natural. Like the world had been tilted slightly wrong for months and finally snapped back into place.

His hands found her waist instantly, warm and certain, and she let herself melt, her cheek brushing the edge of his shoulder as she smiled.

“You know,” she murmured, voice muffled against him, “if you keep greeting me like this, I’m going to start expecting it.”

He huffed out a laugh — that quiet, warm one she always hoarded away — and she lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes.

“And for the record,” she added, her smile turning a little mischievous, “you absolutely outdid yourself. This suite is gorgeous. I walked in and thought I’d accidentally wandered into an ad for inner peace.”

His thumb brushed her waist and she leaned closer, enjoying the way his presence softened everything inside her.

She traced a gentle line along his jaw with her finger, playful but tender.
“Champagne, candles, fresh roses… you know this sets a very dangerous precedent, right?”

She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him just a little closer.

Her voice warmed, brimmed with something fizzy and sweet.

“And you’re right,” she said, leaning back just enough to tip her chin up at him. “Tonight is mine. And I intend to enjoy all of it.”

She poked his chest once — lightly, teasing.

“And you?” Her smile widened as she wiggled closer, practically glowing. “You’re part of the itinerary.”

His eyebrow lifted, amused — the slow, devastating kind of lift that made her feel like she’d just stepped into a game she absolutely intended to win.

“Yes,” she confirmed, grin turning soft and wicked all at once, “all bookings are final.”

Avan’s hands tightened at her waist the second she came into him — not possessive, just relieved, like he’d been bracing for the moment and finally got to exhale.

He didn’t hide the smile that hit him, either. One of those quiet, crooked ones that softened the edges of his features and made him look younger, warmer — human in a way he only ever let himself be around her.

When she teased about expecting this kind of greeting, he dipped his head slightly, his breath brushing her temple.

“Then I’ll make a habit of it,” he murmured, low and amused. “Not the worst thing to be known for, is it?”

Her presence — soft, bright, undeniably hers — filled the entire room in a way the candles and the champagne never could. He brushed a hand along her back, fingers tracing the subtle lines of tension he knew too well.

Hearing her call the suite an ad for inner peace made him huff a breath of laughter against her hair.

“That was the idea,” he said, his tone gentle. “You’ve had enough chaos for ten lifetimes. Thought you deserved a night where the loudest thing in the room was your heartbeat.”

She touched his jaw, and he leaned into it without thinking — subtle, instinctive, his eyes lowering for just a moment as if the warmth of her hand steadied something in him that had been restless all day.

When she teased about dangerous precedents, his smile turned slow and distinctly male.

“Dangerous,” he echoed, voice dipping, “is sending me that smile and expecting me to behave.”

Her arms around his neck pulled him closer, and he went easily, willingly, settling a hand at the small of her back as his thumb grazed the bare skin beneath the hem of her top.

“Tonight is yours,” he repeated softly, his forehead brushing hers. “I’m just here to make sure you remember what quiet feels like.”

But when she poked his chest — that playful little jab — his expression shifted into something warmer, deeper. A flicker in his eyes she’d seen before, but never quite like this.

“Part of the itinerary, am I?” he asked, voice rich with fond amusement.

Her grin was wicked and soft all at once, and he shook his head, the tiniest laugh slipping out as he tugged her closer by the waist.

“Well,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips hovered near her cheek, “good thing I’ve cleared my schedule.”

His mouth brushed her skin — barely, beautifully — before he pulled back just enough to look at her again. His thumb brushed her jaw, slow and reverent.

“I’m yours for the night,” he said quietly. “Tell me where you want to start.”

Her grin was instant — bright, wicked, and warm enough to light the whole suite by itself.
It was the kind of smile she only ever gave him, the kind that said I’m safe here. I’m happy here. I’m going to make this fun for both of us.

“Tell you where I want to start?” she echoed, looping her fingers into the front of his shirt and tugging him down just a little.
Not enough to kiss him.
Just enough to make him feel her breath skim his skin.

“Let’s just say I’ve been imagining this all week,” she murmured, eyes glittering.

He laughed — a real one, soft and unguarded — and the sound vibrated through her like a chord she’d been waiting months to hear.

“But,” she went on, raising a finger between them like she was making a very official announcement, “because I’m feeling generous and slightly chaotic tonight—”

He snorted under his breath.
She kissed the corner of his mouth for that.
A quick, sweet press that landed like a spark and left him blinking.

“—I’m going to let you choose the first move.”

She stepped back half a pace, enough to sweep her arm dramatically toward the suite like she was Vanna White unveiling luxury.

“Door one,” she said, tapping the champagne bucket with her toe, “bubbles and chocolate. Excellent for recovery, celebration, and questionable flirting.”

She pointed toward the wide, turned-down bed, sheets soft and waiting.

“Door two: we kiss until our brains short-circuit and I forget how sentences work. Which, for the record, is already happening.”

Then she turned toward the bathroom — the candles still unlit, the bath oils and soft towels lined up like an invitation.

“And door three…”
Her smile tipped slow, sweet, a little dangerous.
“…the entire spa situation. High potential for trouble. Zero regrets guaranteed.”

She wiggled her brows, pure mischief.

“I’m not saying it’s my top choice, but…”
She leaned close, brushing her lips near his jaw — not touching, just enough to make him inhale sharply.
“…I’m also not not saying that.”

She pulled back enough to see the look on his face — half undone, half amused, fully hers for the night.

“So,” she said, settling her hands back on his chest, her voice rich with affection and tease,
“which door is our grand staycation kickoff?”

A beat.

Her smile softened — bright, conspiratorial, glowing.

“Choose wisely,” she murmured, eyes dancing up at him. “The night’s ready for a little adventure.”

Avan went still — the good kind of still — the kind a man fell into when he realised he was completely, delightfully outmatched.

Her grin, her voice, the way she mapped the suite like a game he suddenly desperately wanted to win… it hit him square in the chest.
And then she leaned in, breath brushing his jaw, lips hovering like a promise he wasn’t sure he deserved —

Yeah. He was gone.

A slow smile unfurled across his face, warm and devastating, the kind that came out only when he stopped guarding himself.

“Well,” he said softly, voice slipping into that unhurried English drawl she always pulled out of him, “you do know how to make a man feel spoilt for choice.”

Her laugh puffed against his collarbone and he dipped his head slightly, letting his nose brush the edge of her hairline — subtle, intimate.

He took her hand from his chest, threading their fingers together, thumb brushing the delicate ridge of her knuckles.
Then he stepped forward, closing the tiny gap she’d left, letting her body meet his — calm, solid, steady.

“Door one is tempting,” he admitted, eyes skimming her face with a warmth that made her pulse jump. “Champagne. Chocolate. You stealing all the strawberries, denying it, then blaming me for eating the last one…”

His smile crooked a little.
“Charming, but predictable.”

He slid his free hand to her waist, fingers slow, deliberate, the kind of touch that asked permission even while she leaned into it.

“Door two…” His gaze dropped to her mouth — not lustful, but reverent. “Dangerous,” he murmured. “You kiss me once and I forget my own name, never mind strategies.”

Her breath hitched. He absolutely noticed.

And then—

He turned his head toward the bathroom, toward the glowing line of candles waiting to be lit, the bath oils he’d arranged with embarrassing precision.

“Door three,” he said, voice deepening with something warmer, sweeter. “Now that is chaos of the finest variety.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing the top of her cheek — barely there, but enough to send heat skittering across her skin.

“You in my shirt,” he whispered, “steam on your skin, candles flickering…”
A soft, nearly-silent laugh.
“God help me, love, I might not survive that one.”

She grinned — wicked and victorious — but he wasn’t finished.

He rested his forehead against hers, his voice gentling into something honest.
Something soft.

“But if you really want to know what I choose?”

He slid his hand from her waist up her spine, drawing her closer — slow, careful, like she was something he’d waited too long to touch again.

“I choose the door where you don’t have to rush,” he said, breath warm against her lips. “The one where you get to land… not perform.”

His thumb traced her lower lip — feather-light, lingering.

“So.”

A beat.
A breath.
A smile that could undo someone.

“Door three,” he said quietly. “The spa. Let me run that bath for you. Let me make the candles look the way you deserve. And while you sink into something soft—”

His mouth brushed her cheek again, lower this time.

“—I’ll open the champagne and come join you when you’re ready.”

Then, pulling back just enough for her to see the spark in his eyes:

“And later…”
His smile deepened — warm, teasing, utterly sincere.
“We can get lost in doors one and two.”

He kissed her temple — slow, tender, intentional.

“Sound like an adventure worth taking?”

She tilted her head like she was genuinely considering it — as if this were a polite proposal and not one of the most disarming invitations she’d ever been handed.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, her smile blooming like something wicked and warm, “I could let you pamper me for the evening…”

Then she leaned in, brushed her mouth near his jaw with a feather-light grin, and whispered, “But only if I get to pamper you back later.”

Her words were teasing, but the meaning curled beneath them like steam: You deserve that. Not just tonight. Always.

Because he had been patient. And careful. And kind.
Through all of it.
Even when she’d had to smile for headlines and fake-laugh in borrowed designer while holding Devon’s hand for the camera.

Avan had waited without pushing. Steadied her without conditions.
He never made her choose.

She stepped back, and without needing to be asked, he moved to the bathroom. She heard the quiet flick of a candle lighting. Then another. Then the soft rush of water.

When she rounded the corner, he was waiting with the robe and slippers in hand — like it was nothing. Like he’d always known she’d need the softest version of this night.

Imogen met his gaze as she took them, her fingers brushing his, but she didn’t say thank you.

Not yet.

Instead, she slipped into the other room, letting the weight of the moment trail behind her like perfume.

It didn’t take long to undress — her fingers moving slowly, reverently, as she peeled away the last traces of the day. Fabric kissed the floor, cool air traced bare skin, and the robe he’d chosen felt like being exhaled into.

She tied the sash in a loose knot. Slipped her feet into the waiting slippers. And for a second… she just stood there.

Still.
Warm.
Herself.

Then she spotted the bag.

Champagne. Strawberries. Chocolate.

She smiled — not a grin this time, but something softer. Something a little in love.

She picked it up and padded toward the bathroom, the candlelight casting golden halos through the cracked door. The scent of honey and warm water filled her lungs as she entered, and without a word, she set the bag gently on the counter beside the sink.

Then she turned to him, eyes bright beneath the soft glow, and said with a cheeky smile that barely hid the warmth behind it—

“Okay, but just so we’re clear… if I ascend into some kind of goddess state from all this effort, that’s your fault.”

She leaned in, brushing her shoulder against his as she peeked at the rising water, voice a murmur just for him.

“And if I melt into the tub and never reappear, just tell the tabloids I went out happy.”

Then she moved to stand beside him while the tub continued to fill.

There wasn’t a rush.

Just this.
Just them.

And the kind of quiet that finally felt like peace.

Avan looked at her like she’d just walked in wrapped in starlight.

Not because of the robe — though it looked indecently soft on her — and not because of the candlelight making her skin glow like warm silk.
But because of the way she said it.

If I ascend into some kind of goddess state… that’s your fault.

His mouth curved, slow and devastating, the kind of smile that started deep in the chest before it reached his lips.
He tilted his head, watching her with that soft, smoldering intensity that always made her pulse quicken.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” he murmured, voice dipping into that velvet London warmth. “A goddess state? I’d say that’s been your default since you walked in.”

She bumped her shoulder into him; he barely swayed — just leaned back into her with quiet certainty.

When she joked about melting into the tub and needing a good PR cover story, he let out a low, amused hum, turning slightly so he could look at her properly, candlelight flickering in the dark of his eyes.

“Imogen,” he said, all mock-gravity and hidden affection, “if you disappear into this bath, you have my word — I will give the press the most dignified obituary imaginable.”

A pause.
Then, softly teasing:

‘Beloved pop sensation transcends mortal coil after experiencing unparalleled tranquility,’” he recited in that rich, low voice, “last seen wearing a robe far too luxurious for the common eye.”

She laughed — that soft, golden sound he always chased — and he felt it hit him somewhere under the ribs.

The tub filled behind him, water steaming gently, the scent of bergamot curling through the warm air. Candles flickered along the marble, each flame steady and intentional, like they’d been waiting just for her.

He reached past her without touching — a polite brush of presence — and turned off the tap. The water stilled into a glossy pool, perfect and calm.

Then he turned back to her, slowly, leaning his hip against the marble as he took her in.
Not hungrily.
Not possessively.
Just… reverently.

“As for ascending,” he continued, softer now, thumb brushing the edge of a candleholder, “I’ll take full responsibility if it happens. Seems only fair, considering the effort.”

He glanced down at the robe she wore — his choice, his hands, his moment — and something warm flickered across his face.

“You look…”
He stopped, breath catching in his throat for a second he didn’t bother to hide.
“…unbelievably at peace.”

He stepped closer then, close enough that the air between them warmed, but not so close that he overwhelmed her. His voice gentled into that low, intimate murmur she’d memorised.

“This is your night,” he said. “Every second of it. You just tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen.”

Her cheeks flushed — not from embarrassment, but from how seen she felt in that moment.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added with that crooked, irresistible smile:

“And if you do reach goddess status…”
He brushed an invisible lint speck off her sleeve, soft as a kiss.
“…I expect the proper worship rights.”

He lifted his chin toward the tub, offering his hand for balance without insisting she take it.

“Go on, love,” he said, eyes warm enough to melt steel. “Your throne awaits.”

Her throne awaits.

God, he really said that.

And the worst part?

It worked.

Something buzzed low in her stomach — not nerves, not quite — but that fizzy sort of feeling that only showed up when he looked at her like that. When he said things like your night, like I’ll make it happen, like he’d torn pages from her private daydreams and recited them in candlelight.

She didn’t blush. Not really.
But she did feel the corners of her smile twist into something wicked and warm, something that curled around the edge of her heart and purred.

He made it far too easy to fall for moments like this.

“Well,” she said lightly, reaching up to undo the robe’s tie with one slow tug, “it would be rude not to accept such a royal invitation.”

The knot gave way with a whisper, fabric slipping open just enough to tease. She raised an eyebrow, daring, playful, then let the robe fall from her shoulders — not rushed, not showy. Just… elegant chaos.

Like she’d practiced in front of her hotel mirror before and now had an audience worth the rehearsal.

The robe slid to the floor in a hush of silk. She stepped out of it slowly, unapologetically, feeling the flicker of candlelight chase every curve, every bare inch of skin like a secret.

She didn’t break eye contact once.

Then, with the kind of confidence that only came when a girl felt safe and worshipped, she padded over to the tub and climbed in — graceful but deliberate, like each movement was its own kind of answer.

Warm water lapped at her thighs, then her waist, rising up like it couldn’t wait to have her. She let out a soft, sighing hum — half indulgence, half confession — and tilted her head back just slightly.

Steam curled at her collarbone. Candlelight kissed her skin.

And he — the man who’d orchestrated it all, who looked like he wanted to commit every inch of this moment to memory — still stood there like she was the whole damn constellation.

“Alright,” she murmured, settling in, eyes glinting over the edge of the tub. “You’ve officially outdone yourself.”

She dipped one leg beneath the water, then the other, toes brushing the edge opposite her. She folded her arms loosely on the rim of the tub and rested her chin there, letting her voice drop into something low and silk-wrapped.

“Now,” she added, a smile tugging at her lips, “be a darling and open the champagne before I decide you’re too good at this and start getting suspicious.”

A beat.

Then, softer — but no less certain:

“…And Avan?”

She let the name roll off her tongue like a secret she liked keeping.

“This is already the best night I’ve had in months.”

She didn’t say because of you.
She didn’t have to.
It was written in every inch of steam, sparkle, and silence between them.

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.”

Avan let out a short, incredulous exhale—a sound that was pure, defeated delight. He shook his head slightly, the movement brushing his nose against hers again, agonizingly slow.

“Insufferable,” he whispered, though the word was saturated with affection. “You are absolutely, magnificently insufferable.”

He shifted his grip on the back of her neck, his fingers tightening just enough to tip her head back, anchoring her exactly where he wanted her. The steam swirled around them, dampening his lashes, clinging to his skin, but his focus didn't waver from the challenge in her eyes.

“High bar,” he murmured, his voice a low velvet scrape. “As if I haven't spent years learning exactly how to clear it. As if I don't know exactly where to touch to make you forget you're a deity and remember you're just... mine.”

He leaned in, his lips hovering a millimeter from hers—close enough to share breath, far enough to be a torment.
“You want me to earn it?”

He didn't wait for an answer.

He closed the distance, not with the slow reverence of before, but with a sudden, consuming hunger. He kissed her deep, stealing the breath she’d used to taunt him, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a possessive familiarity that claimed everything she was offering. It was a kiss meant to silence her, to overwhelm her, to drag her under without him even entering the water.

He let the kiss deepen, tilting her head to a devastating angle, his thumb digging into the sensitive cord of her neck, demanding a response.
When he finally pulled back—just an inch, breathless and ruined himself—his voice was rough, wrecked.

“Well?” he challenged, searching her face, waiting to see if those golden eyes were finally, blissfully shut. “How are my grades?”

Imogen would have laughed if she could—if there were any oxygen left in her bloodstream not currently occupied with the task of surviving him.

He called her insufferable and she felt her whole heart stretch, warm and helpless, like it recognized the word as something sacred. Like it was a nickname. A vow. A home.

But the moment his hand tightened at the back of her neck—just enough to guide, not enough to command—her breath hitched, the sound catching in her throat like a secret she hadn’t meant to let him hear.

Mine, he said.

And God, she was.
Utterly.
Hopelessly.
Ridiculously his.

Not that she’d ever admit it without being at least a tiny menace.

His mouth crashed into hers and she met the kiss with a soft, startled sound—a quiet, hungry hum that vibrated between them as her fingers fisted in his hair. She kissed him back with the same wicked devotion he gave her: greedy, aching, too much and not enough.

The way he kissed her—deep, claiming, dragging her under—made her forget entirely that she was supposed to be teasing him. Made her forget the bath, the steam, the room, her own damn name. Made her remember only that this was Avan—her Avan—and she loved him with a ferocity that scared and thrilled her in equal measure.

He pulled back too soon.
Far too soon.

Her lips chased him without thinking—an instinctive, yearning little lean forward that betrayed everything she normally kept stitched behind her bright, sarcastic composure. And when she realized she’d done it, she froze just long enough for him to see it.

Her eyes fluttered open—yes, open, defiantly open still—and she blinked up at him with that devastating mix of dazed affection and smugness.

She took her time answering.
Not because she needed time.
Because she was cruel.

Finally, she let a slow, languid smile curl across her mouth—the kind that was half praise, half provocation.

“Well,” she murmured, voice warm and wrecked but still dripping with mischief, “you passed.”

Her thumb brushed his jaw, tender in a way she only ever let herself be when he’d already disarmed her this thoroughly.

“But,” she added, tilting her head just a touch, eyes glowing with trouble, “I don’t believe in grade inflation. There’s room for improvement.”

She let her knees rise just slightly through the water, brushing his thigh—barely there, barely a touch, but intentional as sin.

“And you know me,” she continued, soft and sinful, “I’m a very demanding instructor.”

Her voice dipped lower, breath brushing his lips.

“So if you want those eyes closed…”
Her fingers tugged lightly at the hair at his nape, coaxing, teasing, worshipping.
“You’re going to have to kiss me again. Better.”

There was love in her eyes—deep, overwhelming, unmistakable.

But there was challenge, too.
And she knew he saw both.

She wanted him—completely.
But she would always make him work for the victory.

Because he was the only one she adored enough to fight with.