The hand on her neck slid lower. Down her spine. Over the curve of her lower back. His fingers fanned wide, spanning her, and pressed until the gap between their bodies closed with a contact so complete she could feel his pulse in three places at once.
Then he moved beneath her. Once. The kind of slow, grinding roll that communicated a full thesis in one motion and the thesis was not about bath salts.
"Maddox." His name came out like a warning and a prayer stitched together by a woman who was losing the argument with her own composure.
"Right here." The answer landed on her pulse point. Then his teeth scraped the skin there and the sound that left her throat had no business existing in a bathing chamber at this hour.
His hands moved from her jaw to her hips. The runes flared brighter where his skin met hers. The green water turned gold at the contact points and the bathwater was losing its identity crisis one glow at a time.
