This is a bad idea. I untie my robe anyway.
The cold air is shocking against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and thighs. I don't have to look up to feel his gaze tracking over me. The weight of it between us is heavy. The heat of his attention covers every inch of exposed skin, and part of me wants to know what he sees. More importantly, if he likes what he sees.
I drape the robe over a chair and step toward the hot tub, acutely aware of every movement my body makes, trying to focus my thoughts on the frosty surface under my feet instead of him.
"Still stuck with 'Bunny Hill,' huh?" I try for light as I ease into the water, gasping slightly at the temperature change.
"That depends." His voice is lower now, rougher. He watches me settle onto the bench across from him, arms still stretched wide in a pose that displays every corded muscle of his shoulders and chest. The waterline hits just below his pecks with his long torso submerged. "What would you like me to call you, Natalia?"
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with temperature.
"I mean, it's my name. Seems like the obvious choice."
"It’s too formal." He tilts his head, studying me with that Russian intensity that makes me want to squirm. "You need something softer."
"You think I’m soft?" I ask.
His lips curve slightly at my question. "I suppose there’s only one way to find out. I bet you could be, under the right circumstances… in the right hands."
I should change the subject. I should make a joke. I should definitely not hold his gaze like this, like we're in some kind of staring contest where the prize is something neither of us should want.
"By the way… those asshole kids that scared you on the slopes won’t be bothering you anymore."
I shake my head and close my eyes for a brief second. This man can’t help being a walking liability for me, even if the fact that he made threats for my safety is a little sexy. "Do I even want to know what you said to them?"
"Probably not."
I let out a snicker because what else can I do? I certainly can’t control what the man said out loud. Instead, I lean back, my shoulders against the jets. I wince at the pressure.
"Tight shoulders?" He asks.
I nod, "I'm so sore from skiing, I can barely move."
"Is that right?" Something predatory enters his eyes. "I could help with that."
And there it is. The trap I just walked into with both eyes open.
"Are you offering me a massage?" I try to keep my voice neutral. As if we're discussing the weather and not the fact that he just offered to put his hands on me.
"If you want one."
"That's very kind of you." I can hear the careful distance in my own words. "But you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He shifts forward slightly, arms dropping into the water. "The question is whether you want me to."
Do I want this? Yes.
Should I want this? Absolutely not.
"It's just a massage," I say, more to convince myself than him.
"Just a massage," he agrees. But the way he says it suggests we both know it's a lie.
"Okay, then," I agree.
I move through the water toward him, hyperaware of every ripple, every displaced bubble. He turns slightly, making room for me to sit between his thighs, back to his chest.
The first touch of his hands on my shoulders made me inhale sharply.
