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Taking that as ayes.

This has got to be either my best—or my worst—idea yet.

Pestilence’s eyes are on me when he takes off the last of his clothing. He’s perfect, his body flowing from one sculpted contour to the next. And now I’m sure I’m the one wearing the wistful expression.

Pestilence steps into the tub, the water darkening with the mud that rolls off him.

I thought there was plenty of room for the two of us, but as soon as the horseman sits down, I realize just how large he is, even folded up.

My foot is brushing against his hip, and his legs have me pinned in place. All sorts of skin is touching and it ismajorlydistracting. Idly, he runs his hand up and down my leg, slowly setting me on fire. My foot jerks the moment his knuckles graze the arch of it.

“What are you thinking of, dear Sara?” he finally says.

That I am one bad decision away from jumping your bones.

“Why did you bury them?” I ask instead.

Pestilence picks up my leg, studying it as he places it in his lap. “Let’s not talk about sad things right now.” He deliberately runs a thumb over the arch of my foot, grinning a little when my leg jerks again in response. “Do most humans take baths together?” he asks.

Just the stupid ones.

“No.”

He squeezes my foot. “Then why did you invite me in?”

“Because I like being close to you,” I say, my voice hushed.

His eyebrows raise at the admission. I think we’re both surprised by my honesty.

“Are you going to regret this tomorrow?”

“Probably,” I answer.

His eyes return to my leg. For a long minute he runs his hand up and down it. Every time his fingers move high on my thigh, I tense.

“How does a human choose a mate?” Pestilence asks, out of the blue.

Rob and Ruth clearly got under his skin.

“Well, first,” I say, “we don’t call themmates—well, not usually at least. We have all sorts of names for significant others—boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, soulmate.”

His eyes narrow in a way that suggests he’s taking my words way too seriously.

All the while his hand moves up and down my leg. Up and down. By the seventh stroke, my nipples are fit to cut glass and my core is aching.

Does he know how wild his touch is driving me?

“How does one find a … significant other?”

I pat the water with my hand, anything to distract myself from Pestilence’s attention. It’s already problematic for my hormones, but in light of what we’re talking about … well, he’s reminding me that it’s a lonely world and this homegirl hasn’t gotten any in alongtime.

“I don’t know,” I say, “anywhere, I guess. It doesn’t really matter how or where or why you meet. It’s more about how they make you feel.”

“And how should they make you feel?”

The tone of his voice raises my gooseflesh, and I can’t help but peer up at him.

A mistake.