I’ll admit… having been genetically blessed by my beautiful (though absent) parents, I rarely have to do the heavy lifting where seduction is concerned. I’m kinda loving that this is different.
I go to my suitcase and unzip it, fishing around for loungey satin trousers and a spaghetti-strap cami.
“Invitation accepted.”
The hot water is divine. I want to use the massage function on my tired shoulders but can’t figure it out. I twist the showerhead, then search the walls for some kind of button.
Throwing a glance toward the parallelogram of light leading to the living room, I call out, “Um… excuse me?”
I open a towel in front of myself, stepping out of the spray.
He appears to the left of the doorway, on the other side of the frosted glass.
Shirtless.
“Can I help you, kleine Hexe?”
What am I getting myself into? We both know neither the offer nor the acceptance of a shower is innocent…
“Th-the, uh, the shower massage,” I stammer. “Is it controlled by an app or something?”
There’s a pause. I wonder if we’re both thinking the same thing.
“Would you like company?” His voice is a rich rumble.
We are indeed thinking the same thing.
Lust taps an inquiring knock in the neighborhood between my legs. For a half minute, neither of us moves.
I don’t trust myself to reply. I pull the towel off, then sidestep into the open, unwinding the scrunchie holding my hair on top of my head. It fans over my shoulders.
He steps into the doorway, the hunger in his eyes full of unexpected warmth.
“You’re stunning.”
“Likewise,” I manage.
His torso is a feast for the eyes—elegant slopes of gym-chiseled perfection, tapering from powerful shoulders to a trim waist sketched with a magnetic V-cut.
My shameless gawking elicits a chuckle.
“There’s more,” he assures me in an affectionate taunt.
The way he holds my gaze as his fingers go to the button on his trousers sends a shiver through me. He unzips and steps out of his clothes.
His legs are long and sculpted with the defined muscles of an athlete. My eyes slide over him and my nipples tighten as I zero in on a fantasy-worthy cock. He isn’t erect—there’s just enough blood flow to give it a lift—but already delectably big.
Phae, you’re officially forgiven for not texting back.
I’m not short at five-nine, but he towers over me. He walks me slowly backward to the mosaic-tiled wall. Steam curls around us. His huge hands skate over my hips. Our eyes are inches apart, and his smile is so cocky that I’m not sure whether I want to bite his lip in annoyance or lust. The mint-and-cognac of his breath is a magnet pulling me closer.
Dammit, why isn’t he kissing me?
I press against him, my breasts meeting his chest with its light dusting of dark hair.
He holds my face, almost reverent. “You’re shivering. Should I stop?”
“I’m shivering because the suspense is killing me.”
