The bathwater was too hot. Arianne let it be.
She had woken in Franz's bed with his arm heavy across her waist and the sheets tangled at their feet. The lamp on his nightstand was still on—he had forgotten to turn it off, or hadn't cared. The light fell across his face. He was still asleep. Breathing deep. Face slack in a way it never was when he was awake, when he was watching, when he was present in that particular way of his.
She had lain there for a moment. His arm. The warmth of him. The soreness already making itself known between her legs.
Then she had moved. Slowly. Lifting his arm, setting it back on the mattress. He stirred but didn't wake. She crossed the hall to her own room. The floor was cold under her bare feet. The estate still held the chill of winter in its bones.
She ran the bath.
Now she sank into the heat and let the soreness register.
