I yelp and sit up so fast the water sloshes over the edge of the tub.
Rafael.
He stands there, framed in the doorway like a storm cloud in his dark suit pants and white shirt. He’s undone the collar, the tie gone, and the sight of his bare throat makes me gulp, suddenly parched. He eyes the scene: the foggy room, the massive tub, me submerged and naked. His expression gives away nothing, but his eyes do a slow, heavy sweep that feels so physical, like a rough palm dragging over my skin.
Omg, omg, OMG!
"Out!" I shriek. "Get out, you brute! I'm in the bath! You can't just?—"
He walks in as if he’s not hearing me, his focus shifts to the glass-walled shower stall beside the tub. He set his phone on the vanity with a softclick.
“I’m fucking naked,” I hiss, pulling my knees to my chest, the swell of my breasts breaks the water’s surface, the movement making them sway. Water laps at the undersides, and my nipples tighten instantly from the chill of the air, pressing hard and visibly against the wet skin. I catch his gaze settle on them for a split second, before snapping back to my face.
"Rafael." I grab the edge of the tub with one hand like it's going to do anything useful. "I am naked in here. Do you understand what naked means? It means no clothes. It means you need to leave."
He starts on his shirt buttons.One. Two. Three.
"I will scream," I gulp. “Rafael, I swear to god?—”
"There's no one in the east wing but us," he says. “And even if there were, they all work for me.”
The shirt falls open. He shrugs it off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor.
I snap my eyes to the ceiling immediately, which is the correct and dignified response, and I hold them there with great discipline for approximately four seconds before they move back down completely against my will.
Oh.
He looks like a god.
Broad, thick shoulders corded with muscle that moves under his skin like stone sliding over stone. A dense mat of dark hair covers his chest, trailing down the hard planes of his stomach. A scar on his side, pale and wicked-looking, makes my throat tighten. My gaze snags on it, then on the deep V of his hips disappearing into his pants.
Oh God.
I am staring. I am absolutely staring and I cannot stop and I have no defense for it except that I am only human and he is standing right there.
He reaches for his belt.
I look at the ceiling again.
Don’t look. Don’t you fucking look.
The sound of his zipper is obscene. The rustle of fabric as he steps out of his pants and briefs. The soft thud of clothes hitting the tile. Then the sliding sound of the shower door. The hiss and rush of water.
My heart hammers hard against my ribs. The heat of the bath is nothing compared to the fire in my cheeks, my chest, between my legs. I am painfully aware of my own body—the slickness of the water on my skin, the heavy, sensitive weight of my breasts, the empty, aching throb building at my core.
This is insane.
I sit in my bath with my knees pulled up, my eyes fixed firmly upward and I have a very serious conversation with myself about self-control and dignity and the importance of not looking.
I look.
I can't help it. The shower is glass and it is right there and he is right there.
Wow.
He is under the spray, his back to me, water sluicing down the powerful slope of his shoulders, over the dip of his spine, down the firm, rounded curves of his ass. He braces a hand against the tile, head bowed.
Oh my world…
