“Stop.”
My body instantly obeys, and I freeze mid-step like a cartoon character.
“Look at me.”
I turn slowly, and meet his eyes. He is still naked. Still wet. There are still bubbles on his shoulders and in the little dips between his defined muscles. I can’t breathe and hold a hand in front of me to protect his…modesty… from my peripheral vision.
“I—I’m sorry. I thought the room was empty. I knocked, and no one answered.”
His face, sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, eyes the color of a winter storm… I need to stop looking at this man, but I can’t.
A droplet runs from his hairline to his throat. My gaze follows without permission. My tongue darts out in a desperate bid to moisten my lips, and my brain decides now is the time to imagine running my lips over his wet skin to achieve the same outcome. I squeeze them tightly shut.
“Drop your hands, and open your eyes.”
I whimper, actually fucking whimper, as I do what I’m told.
His brow lifts, slow. Controlled. “You’re new.”
“Yes,” I breathe. And then, quickly correcting myself, “I mean no. I’m not new, just… new to this floor.”
His eyes drop to the earbud still clutched in my fist.
“You listen to music while working?”
I shake my head too fast. “Language program. Perhaps you could grab a towel?” Perhaps I could grab one for you? My brain interjects, and I shout at it to shut up.
A beat of silence, but he doesn’t move. I didn’t know men could be so big. Granted, I’ve only seen what was obscenely flashed at me without my permission, but still. I whimper again and drag my eyes back up to his and find him looking at me with something that’s almost amusement.
Then, unexpectedly, he asks, “Which language?”
My cheeks burn. “Russian.”
His eyes narrow with what looks like interest. “And what have you learned?”
My mind blanks.
Then the last phrase I heard through the earbud spills out in a whisper:
“? ?? ???????.”
I don’t understand.
His mouth curves, not into a smile exactly, but something close. Something warm and dangerous.
“You understand more than you think,” he says.
His skin is pebbling now. The water on his skin turning cold. His nipples pebble and I stumble back, nearly tripping over the trolley.
“I’ll come back later.”
“You’re not leaving. Not yet.”
His tone stops me cold. Not because it’s harsh. But because it leaves no room for anything else.
I swallow. “What—?”
He finally reaches for a towel, movements efficient, unhurried. “How old are you?”
