Page 109 of Corrupted Heart

But in the cold light of day, when it’s just regular him and me, my nerves give out.

So instead I turn and head upstairs alone. In the master suite, I disrobe and pin up my hair as the tub fills with hot water and bubbles. When it’s steaming and brimming with jasmine-scented suds, I step in, groaning as I sink into the heat.

My eyes close. A surreal, meditative calmness washes over me. I don’t even realize I’ve started to nod off until I feel the water slosh around me. My eyes fly open, and the gasp locks in my throat as my gaze lands on Kratos.

…A very naked, very yummy looking Kratos as he steps into the tub opposite me and lowers his huge frame into it.

Embarrassment floods my face, but then I’m giggling as the displaced water splashes over the sides of the tub and onto the tiled floor.

“Overfilled it,” he grunts.

“I…” I chew on my lip, my face burning hotly. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

He smirks. “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

“See, that’s actually a misconception?—”

“I know, babygirl.”

My bottom lip retreats between my teeth again. I sink a little lower into the bubbles, enjoying the feel of the hot water teasing between my legs and rippling against my hardening nipples.

I should be in a panic right now.

Water in general is obviously a trigger. But it’s not lost on me that for the very first time since…that night…I’m sitting in water alone with a man.

Relax.

It’s not a hot tub.

There’s no party.

You’re fine.

Weirdly, it doesn’t take the self-coaching I’d expected I’d need to put my mind at ease. When I look at him across the tub, I don’t feel the anxiety or panic I assumed and expected I’d feel right now.

I don’t overthink what that means. I just enjoy the fact I’m not having a panic attack right now.

Kratos exhales deeply as he sinks back against the tub. His massive arms drape over the sides as his eyes close. Meanwhile, I sit there trying to work out why the hell I’ll eagerly say yes to being chased through the dark and fucked brutally, but don’t have the courage to simply sit in my husband’s lap in the bath.

“I don’t think I’ve used this tub once since I installed it,” he rumbles quietly in the stillness of the bathroom.

“What, like it’s not part of your games?”

He opens his eyes, arching a brow at me. “My games?”

“You know,” I shrug casually, trying to play it cool. “When you bring girls home.”

Okay, yes. It’s been occupying a fair amount of real estate in my head since I walked in here. I mean, he’s not just ridiculously hot. And rich, and a member of a hugely powerful crime family. He also has to live in a gorgeous brownstone, in a quiet and super cool artsy neighborhood, that he’s fixing up himself?

I mean, is there a girl equivalent to “shwing” from Wayne’s World?

When he doesn’t immediately respond, my mind goes into overdrive. Of course. I start imagining the hordes of girls from clubs and late-night bars that he charms over here, to show them the tub he’s installed. Or his chef’s kitchen, so he can cook them God-knows-what.

A piping hot batch of dropped panties, most likely.

I’m still simmering, my teeth gritted as I stare blankly at the wall, when he clears his throat.

“I’m, ah, not in the habit of bringing women to my home,” he growls quietly.

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