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But now, somehow, impossibly, she’s in the water, sweating and shivering at the same time, the heat of the steam and the chill of the air and -- and Peter, his legs under hers, his hands on her back. The other thing she didn’t know, the other thing that should have been intuitive. His hands, where her stupid nightgown is clinging to her, dripping and freezing and so definitively not a bathing suit.
“What?” Peter asks her again. His hands linger on her waist. She can feel the heat of his thumb against her bottom rib, hotter than the throbbing warmth of the water around them. He cocks an eyebrow, that mix of openness and tease, and she breaks.
[Or: Five times they don't*, and one time they do.]
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