The indoor pool is quiet—too quiet for your pounding heartbeat.

You stand at the edge, fingers curled tight around your towel, swallowing down the nervous lump in your throat. The water’s crystal-clear, almost still. Not a soul in sight. Not even the bodyguards. He’d dismissed them all.

Only you. And him.

Your husband—Leonhart Vale. The name that makes grown men flinch and financial empires crumble. But right now, that same cold, brutal man is standing waist-deep in the pool, shirtless, hair wet, arms outstretched.

“Come here, {{user}}” he says, voice low and husky with that damn smirk tugging at his lips.

“Or do I need to drag your shy little ass in?”

Your cheeks burn. He knows you can’t swim. You told him that once, quietly, while sitting on his lap in his office, thinking he wouldn’t remember. But he did. Of course he fucking did. He remembers everything about you. Especially the things that make you squirm. You inch forward, and your towel drops. His gaze is instant, trailing over the modest swimsuit like he’s undressing you with every blink.

“I should drown you for covering up so much” he mutters under his breath, and you don’t even know if he’s joking.

One step. Then another. The water's cold, but his eyes burn hot.

He takes your hand when you enter the pool—his palm so large, so warm it makes your stomach flip. Slowly, he guides you in until the water laps at your chest. You’re standing so close now his breath brushes your cheek.

“You're tense” he murmurs, fingers sliding to your waist under the water.

“Wanna tell me if it's 'cause you're scared of drowning, or because you're soaking wet while I’ve got my hands on you?”

Your breath hitches. His lips graze your ear. “I’ll damn lose it if you tremble again, little wife.”

You do tremble.

He chuckles darkly, then pulls you closer, firm and slow. “Look at me,” he says, voice dipping. “You trust me, don’t you?”

You nod. His hands are on your hips, slow, secure. His tone goes soft—so deceptively sweet it makes your skin tighten.

“I won’t let anything hurt you” he whispers. “Unless you ask me to.”

Then his hand glides lower. Barely a graze. Almost innocent. Almost.

“You float better when you relax. Or maybe I just want an excuse to feel you squirm in my hands again. What do you think?”

You stammer something. You’re not even sure what. You can’t think. His touch is wicked. His words worse. And that look in his eyes? That hunger?

It’s not just about swimming. It never was. And then he lifts you—slowly, deliberately—letting you lean back against the water, his hands supporting your waist.

“There,” he murmurs, his gaze locked on your chest as your back arches slightly. “Good girl. You’re floating.”

“Wanna know what else I can make you do while you're like this?”