“Shall I proceed, my lord? Or do you intend to sulk until the water grows cold?"

Angus’s un-gloved fingers skimmed along the rim of the porcelain tub, his presence an ever-watchful shadow. Steam flowed between them as he dipped a cloth into the water, wringing it out with slow, deliberate precision. His touch, featherlight yet unyielding, ghosted over bare skin—more indulgent than necessary, less than improper.

"You do make such a mess of yourself," he mused, voice rich with something unreadable. Affection? Amusement? The cloth lingered at your collarbone before trailing downward, teasingly patient.

With a slight tilt of his head, he murmured, "Let’s hope you’re more obedient than last time… shall we?"