Steam curled softly through the bathing room as Soren finally stepped into the water across from her.
The heat immediately fogged the edges of the mirrors and windows, softening the room into something quieter.
Smaller.
More intimate.
Freya sank slightly deeper into the bath instinctively, trying very hard not to look at him directly now that he was actually in the water with her.
Which only made Soren's amusement deepen.
"You invited me in," he reminded her calmly.
Freya stared stubbornly at the opposite wall.
"That was before you started enjoying this."
"I was enjoying this long before the bath."
That—
earned him a sharp look immediately.
Soren looked entirely too pleased with himself.
Freya rolled her eyes softly and leaned back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, letting the warmth loosen the lingering tension from her muscles.
A quiet sigh escaped her before she could stop it.
"You're tired."
Freya cracked one eye open.
She muttered,
"Someone apparently trying to kill me the past few nights."
A slow smirk tugged at Soren's mouth.
"I distinctly remember you participating."
Freya looked scandalized.
"I was trying to survive."
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
She splashed water at him immediately.
Not enough to drench him.
Just enough to wipe the smug expression from his face for half a second.
Soren blinked once.
Then slowly looked at her.
Freya immediately realized her mistake.
"…Don't."
"Don't what?"
"That look means you're planning something."
Soren leaned back slightly against the opposite side of the bath, arms resting along the edge.
"You attacked first."
"With water."
"You seem very determined to minimize your crimes tonight my wife."
Freya snorted softly despite herself.
And there it was again.
That sound.
That easy, unguarded amusement that still affected Soren far more than it should have.
The room quieted after that.
Not awkwardly.
The rain outside had softened into a faint rhythm against the windows while warm steam drifted lazily around them.
Freya rested her head back slightly, eyes half-lidded from the heat.
And Soren watched her.
Not with hunger alone.
With something steadier.
Something far more dangerous.
The ocean wind rattled softly against the windows nearby.
Freya glanced toward the sound before looking back at him.
Soren moved then.
Until he sat closer beside her within the bath, warm water shifting around them gently.
Freya's pulse quickened slightly at the nearness.
But she didn't move away.
His arm settled lightly along the edge behind her—not trapping her, not forcing closeness.
Just there.
Giving her room to leave.
And silently recognizing she wasn't going to.
"You know," he murmured quietly,
"the first version of you would have stabbed me for this."
Freya glanced sideways at him.
"…The thought still crosses my mind occasionally."
"That's reassuring."
"It should be."
Soren smiled faintly.
Then his gaze softened slightly as he looked at her.
Freya looked down at the water between them, watching faint ripples shift around their legs.
The steam curled softly around them while rain tapped quietly against the windows.
For once, neither of them spoke.
Freya's gaze drifted upward slowly.
And found him already looking at her.
But there was something different in it tonight.
Warm and steady enough to make something tighten painfully in her chest.
Freya swallowed faintly.
"…You're staring again."
Soren's voice lowered slightly.
"You keep saying that like you want me to stop."
That—
she didn't know how to answer.
Because she didn't want him to stop.
And admitting that even to herself felt dangerous.
The air between them changed quietly after that.
Freya's pulse quickened slightly as Soren leaned closer.
Not all at once.
Slow enough that she could stop it.
Freya's breath caught faintly.
Because she understood what he was doing.
And because he was waiting.
For her.
The realization nearly undid her.
Soren's voice dropped lower.
"Tell me to stop."
Freya stared at him silently.
Every instinct that once screamed at her to run had gone strangely quiet.
All she could hear now was the ocean outside.
The rain.
And her own heartbeat.
Because she didn't want him to stop.
That terrified her.
But not enough to pull away.
Freya moved first.
His eyes darkened slightly—
Something softer.
More dangerous.
Then slowly—
his hand lifted to her face.
Warm fingers brushing lightly along her jaw before settling gently at the side of her neck.
Freya's breath faltered.
Soren leaned in the rest of the way carefully.
Their kiss started softly.
Which felt impossible for them.
Warm lips brushing hers slowly enough that it barely felt real at first.
Freya's eyes fluttered shut as something deep in her chest unraveled all at once.
Because this—
this was somehow more intimate than all the nights tangled together in sheets and firelight.
Soren's hand tightened slightly against her neck as the kiss deepened carefully, his thumb brushing along her jaw.
Still gentle.
But she could feel the control it cost him.
Freya shifted closer without realizing it, her fingers brushing lightly against his arm beneath the water.
Soren exhaled softly against her mouth at the contact.
And something about that small sound nearly destroyed her composure completely.
When they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far.
Foreheads almost touching.
Breathing uneven.
The room suddenly felt much smaller than before.
Freya opened her eyes slowly.
Soren was still looking at her the same way.
Too intensely.
Their second kiss was deeper. His lips parted, coaxing hers open, and the taste of him was a familiar drug, warm and intoxicating. He shifted in the water, the movement causing gentle waves to lap against her skin.
The steam from the bath seemed to thicken, cocooning them in a world that held only the sound of the rain, the lapping water, and the accelerated rhythm of their own breathing.
Soren's hand, which had been resting on her shoulder, began a slow, deliberate descent. His fingers traced a path down to her collarbone, over the swell of her breast, and across her stomach. Freya tensed, a familiar spark of alarm warring with the rising tide of desire.
His hand slid lower, beneath the surface of the water, and came to rest on her inner thigh, his thumb stroking the soft skin there with a maddening, lazy rhythm that sent jolts of heat straight to her core.
He didn't rush.
His fingers caressed her inner thigh, a slow, possessive glide that moved ever closer to the heart of her.
Freya felt herself melting, her body arching slightly, a silent plea for more.
She was no longer fighting him; she was fighting herself, fighting the desperate, shameful need that was coiling deep within her.
His fingers finally reached their destination, brushing against her clit. The touch was light, almost a question, and it sent a jolt of pure electricity through her.
Soren broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that stole her breath. His fingers began to move, a slow, deliberate circling of her clit that made her gasp, her head falling back against the smooth stone of the bath.
He slipped one finger inside her, then another, and she was lost, her body rising to meet his touch, her mind blank.
The world narrowed to the touch of his hands and the heat of the water. As one hand worked a devastating rhythm between her thighs, Soren's other rose, slick with bathwater, to her breast. He didn't hesitate, his thumb circling the hardened peak before his palm cupped the soft weight, squeezing with a possessive pressure that sent a fresh wave of desire through her. He leaned in, his lips trailing a path of fire from her collarbone to her chest. Then, with a low groan of satisfaction, he closed his mouth over her nipple, sucking hard, the sharp, wet heat a direct line to the core of her where his fingers were already claiming her.
Her gasp was sharp and immediate, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that was a stark contrast to the pained cries from days before. The dual sensations were overwhelming, a perfect, symphonic assault on her senses. His fingers inside her began to thrust in earnest, a deep, deliberate rhythm that matched the pull of his mouth on her breast. The water around them seemed to pulse with their movements, splashing gently against the sides of the tub. Freya's hands, which had been resting limply at her sides, now came up to tangle in his hair, holding him to her, a silent, desperate plea for him to never, ever stop.
He shifted, his movements fluid and confident, never breaking the rhythm of his hands or the suction of his mouth.
The pressure inside her built, a tight, coiling knot of pleasure that grew with every thrust of his fingers, every pull of his lips. He knew her body so well, knew exactly how to touch her, how to drive her to the edge and hold her there, teetering on the precipice of an abyss she was more than willing to fall into. The scent of steam filled her senses, the only reality the relentless, possessive touch of the man who was methodically, deliberately, and oh-so-sweetly unraveling her.
Her moans were his undoing. The sound, raw and unrestrained, echoed in the steam-filled room, a sweet, siren song of surrender that snapped the last thread of Soren's control.
He felt her inner muscles clamp down on his fingers as her orgasm crashed through her, a slick, pulsing heat that was both a victory and a torment. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of pure need, against her breast. His own body responded with a desperate, aching urgency, his cock, hard and thick and demanding, brushing against her thigh under the water.
He lifted his head, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and intoxicating. He wanted to fill her up, to possess her so completely that there would be no part of her left untouched, no corner of her mind that didn't belong to him.
"Freya," he whispered, his voice a raw, possessive growl.
"I'm going to fill you up until you can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel me." He positioned himself between her thighs, the broad head of his cock pressing against her slick, sensitive entrance.
He was huge, a thick, heavy length that promised pleasure, a reminder of the punishment and the passion that had defined their relationship. With a slow, deliberate control that was a testament to his willpower, he began to push inside her, a slow, relentless pressure that stretched her, filled her, and claimed her all over again.