Lando sits behind you in the tub, arms wrapped around your waist, your back against his chest. His chin rests on your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin, and every few minutes he kisses the same spot just below your jaw — not out of habit, but because he knows you like it.

“You smell good,” he murmurs, voice low, lazy, hands smoothing over your thighs under the water.

“You’re literally in the same bath. Pretty sure that’s just the soap.”

He grins against your neck. “Nah. Definitely you.”

You shift slightly between his legs, feeling him harden against your lower back — slow, subtle, unmistakable. He groans softly, fingers tightening just a little where they rest on your hips.

“I thought this was supposed to be relaxing,” you say, teasing.

“It was,” he mutters. “Then you leaned back like that. And now I’m thinking about other things.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough to glance at him. He kisses you — slow, wet, unhurried — and you melt into it. The way he kisses you in the bath is different: deeper, warmer. Like he has nowhere else to be, and neither do you.

One of his hands slides up your stomach, cupping your breast gently beneath the water, thumb brushing over your nipple with lazy circles.

You sigh, head tipping back onto his shoulder. “Lando…”

“I know,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “Just let me.”

His other hand dips lower, moving between your legs with the same soft, careful rhythm — like this isn’t about taking, but giving. His fingers find you already aching, already open for him, and when he slides two inside, you moan quietly, water rippling with the shift in your body.

“God, you’re so perfect like this,” he breathes. “Letting me touch you. Letting me have you.”

Your body arches into his touch, breath catching as he curls his fingers just right, pace slow and precise. The hand on your breast tightens, and he sucks a mark into your neck, teeth grazing gently.