Tap. Tap. Tap.
Sitting up so fast water sloshed over the curled sides of the tub, Bowen looked in the direction of the door and fully understood that saying he’d heard before, “half agony, half hope,” because that’s how he felt as the door swung open and Tamsyn stood there.
She was wearing a plush robe in a purple so deep it almost looked black in the dim light of the bathroom. Steam had curled the ends of her long hair, making tendrils of it stick to her flushed cheeks, and for a long while, she just stood there, facing the tub, facing him, her lips parted, the belt at her waist loose enough that the robe gaped open at the top, but not enough, not near enough.
From her vantage point, she probably couldn’t see much of his body, concealed as it was by the high sides of the tub and the water cloudy with oil, but she was breathing hard all the same.
Bowen wasn’t sure he was breathing at all, and when her hands went to her belt, he felt like his heart had stopped as well.
The velvet slipped from her shoulders, and she stood there on the tile, naked—gloriously, perfectly naked. Her skin was as lovely, as golden all over, as he’d imagined; her breasts the perfect size for his hands, her nipples hard even in the warm room; and oh, Saint Bugi, Saint Cian, and every other saint he could think of, but he’d forgotten about the mirror in the corner.
Standing where she was, he had a perfect view of all of her, the curve of her hips, the dimples at the base of her spine, and the prettiest, plumpest arse he’d ever had the blessing to look upon.
“You’re a wonder,” he said to her, the words strangled and rough, but she must have liked them, because those gorgeous lips of hers slowly curled into a sly smile.
“You called me that once before,” she told him, taking a step closer and kicking her robe out of the way. “But it was in an email. Have to say, hearing the words come out of your mouth is a very different experience.”
“Seeing you like this is a very different experience,” he managed to say, and she laughed at that, pushing that long fall of dark hair back off her shoulders.
She kept coming closer, and Bowen’s hands instinctively clenched around the rim of the tub, his heart hammering, his cock hard, and every cell of his body aching for her.
“If you’re just in here to prove that you’re even more gorgeous than I’d thought, you’ve succeeded,” he told her. “But if you don’t leave now—”
“I’m not leaving,” she said, and she was at the edge of the tub now, her eyes moving over him with unembarrassed, unabashed hunger.
“Your rule,” he reminded her, and then she smiled again, lifting one delicate foot and slowly lowering it into the tub.
Her toes brushed his shin, and Rhiannon’s tits, just that was enough to have him jumping like he’d been electrocuted.
“Bowen, we’re in 1957. There’s a chance you might not even be born. There’s also a chance we could be stuck here forever. I think my rule should probably get fucked, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer her.
Not with words.
Instead, he reached out and put both hands on her waist, pulling her into the tub and into his arms.
She gave a spluttering laugh, falling against his wet and naked body a little awkwardly, her knees landing on either side of his thighs, water splashing onto the floor, but then he framed her face with both his hands and kissed her with every bit of longing, every bit of desire, every bit of love he’d been trying not to feel since that first night back at the pub in London.
It was probably too much, he told himself. Too fierce, too hungry, too desperate, but he’d wanted her too long to hold back now, and then he realized she was wrapping herself around him, one arm tight around his shoulders, the other hand fisted in his hair, pulling enough for it to hurt, but god, it felt good at the same time, so good that he groaned, or maybe that was her.
Both of them were pressing against each other, their bodies slick from the bath, her mouth almost as hot as the water, her tongue as sweet and perfect as he remembered, and he slid a hand down to cup one of her breasts, his thumb brushing back and forth over her nipple as she made the neediest sounds he’d ever heard.
Her arm still locked around his neck, her mouth still devouring his, Tamsyn took his hand and slid it lower down, his fingers skating over her stomach, her hip, and then he could feel her, the soft hair between her legs, the slickness of her sex, the warmth of her body.
She kissed him and held his hand there, moving her hips shamelessly, and he loved that, wanted her to take whatever she wanted from him, wanted to feel her make herself come with his fingers, but he wanted a lot more, too.
It was hard, tearing his mouth from hers, but Bowen did it even as she whimpered in protest, her lips seeking his.
He ducked his head, capturing one nipple between his lips and then his teeth, and Tamsyn gasped, her head falling back, the ends of her hair floating on the water.
Her hand fell away from his to reach up and clutch the side of the tub, but Bowen kept his fingers right where they were.
“Tell me what you want,” he ground out against her breast, still touching her, but more gently now, softer.
“You,” she gasped, her eyes closed, and Bowen’s heart felt like someone had just tightened a fist around it.
“Picked up on that when you walked in here and dropped that robe, love,” he said, and she tried to laugh, but he pressed a little harder between her legs just then so it turned into a moan instead. “I mean what you like. How you want me to touch you.”
She raised her head and laid a hand on the back of his wet curls again, fingers tightening.
“I want you to fuck me,” she told him, breathless, and all the air seemed to leave his lungs, too.
“Ah, calon bach,” he muttered before kissing her again, the taste of her every bit as good as he’d remembered.
As he’d dreamed.
“It’s been a long time, cariad,” he said as his lips slipped down her neck, finding the spots that made her tug his hair even harder. “I want to. Believe me, I do.”
“And you seem more than capable of it,” she replied, her free hand slipping beneath the water to wrap around his cock in a way that had him dropping his forehead to her collarbone and struggling very hard not to embarrass himself.
“I am that,” he said, even as her hand began to move, stripping the last bits of sanity and control from him.
“But . . .”
Lifting his head, he placed one hand on her cheek, loving the way she instinctively bent toward his touch, her whisky-brown eyes hazy and soft, her lips swollen. “Tamsyn, I haven’t taken a lass to bed in nigh on five years now.”
“You’re not taking this lass to bed,” she said, and her fingers tightened around him, pumping gently. “You’re taking her to bath.”
