Steam drifted lazily through the air, and the atmosphere grew heavy with heat.
Water from the mountain spring ran down his head and shoulders, washing away days of fatigue, leaving Orson so tense he barely dared move.
"How about… I just do it myself?"
He turned, face burning, to glance behind him. There, through the mist, stood a breathtaking silhouette.
Her cheeks were bright red, but her eyes were firm as she placed a hand on his crown and turned his head forward again.
Having someone bathe him like this for the first time—sure, it felt good, but it was also unbelievably awkward.
Orson swallowed hard. When Emma turned away to scoop more water, he couldn't help sneaking glances, heart racing, so nervous he could barely speak.
As for resisting? Please. What mage would ever dare act tough before a rogue?
Hard not to let his thoughts wander, wanting to do something entirely improper.
