His eyes drag over every inch of my exposed skin. My nipples harden under the weight of it, and my skin prickles like I’m standing naked in front of a bonfire, not a tub of frozen water.
Maybe bravery isn’t about climbing mountains or throwing yourself into ice baths. Maybe it’s standing here, bare and goose-pimpled, choosing to be seen by someone who could so easily hurt you.
“This is the best way to do it, right?” I force my arms to stay at my sides, instead of clamping them over my breasts.
“It absolutely is,” he says, voice rougher than before.
A tiny thrill sparks in my chest. I did that.
Then I step into the ice bath.
The scream that tears out of me could probably be heard in London. I’m pretty sure I’ve just traumatized every sheep on Skye. My body is convinced we’re dying.
“Oh my God,” I wheeze, death-gripping the edges of the tub.
Patrick’s smirk deepens. “You’ll adjust.”
“I will not adjust because I’ll be dead.” Somehow, I lower myself further, because apparently my pride is stronger than my survival instinct.
“Breathe.”
“I c-c-can’t breathe when I’m d-d-dying!” My teeth chatter so hard I might bite my tongue off. “This is m-murder. Premeditated ice m-murder.”
“You’re doing great,” he says, which is clearly a lie because I’m about three seconds from becoming a Georgie-shaped ice cube.
“Are you getting in,” I manage through violent shivers, “or are you just going to st-stand there watching me turn blue? Because that’s a bit sadistic, even for you.”
His brow lifts. Then his hands move to his T-shirt hem. The white cotton peels up, revealing his stomach inch by inch before he pulls it over his head.
His fingers hook into his waistband and shove the joggers down.
No boxers.
No warning.
My stomach drops somewhere around my frozen toes.
Ihavetechnically seen him before. Last night, in the dark of my bedroom, tipsy and too overwhelmed to really process. Quick flashes on the boat when I felt him hard against me but didn’t dare look. That one shameful binocular incident.
But this is broad daylight. At conversational distance. Nowhere to look except at the six-foot-something naked man standing right in front of me, blocking out the sun with his... equipment.
He’s thick and aggressively male. Veins ridge the length, skin flushed darker at the crown, the weight of it resting against his thigh like he couldn’t hide it even if he tried.
It feels like a standoff. Me on one side, his penis on the other. Neither of us blinking.
The bastard doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t cover. Just stands there, arms loose at his sides, relaxed as you like. A man with zero shame and even less modesty. A fully uncensored dick meet-and-greet.
I can’t remember a single day in my adult life where I haven’t found something to pick apart in the mirror.
“You have such a beautiful dick,” I blurt before my brain can lock my mouth.
He chuckles. “What makes a dick beautiful?”
“The… ratio of length to… um… girth? It’s very mathematically satisfying. Like someone designed you with a ruler and really good math.”
Still chuckling, he climbs into the tub like it’s a warm bath, dunks his entire head without even gasping, then surfaces and shakes like a dog. Freezing droplets hit my face.
I screech, swiping at my face.
