The heat between them thickened, the air saturated with steam and something far heavier. The lather of soap turned every touch into a glide, every movement into something slow and indulgent. It was no longer just about cleaning—it was a game, a dance of restraint, of knowing glances and teasing gestures.
Lucas swallowed, feeling the way Beatrice's fingers traced over his chest, the slickness making every stroke more languid, more deliberate.
"You're awfully thorough," he murmured, his voice slightly husky.
Beatrice smirked, her emerald eyes glinting with mischief. "I believe in taking care of my guests." Her hands moved up to his shoulders, pressing lightly as she leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faintest scent of jasmine beneath the steam. "Especially the ones who need… special attention."
Lucas chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "Is that what you call this?"
