I’ve seen him naked-ish. I’ve had his cock halfway down my throat, but I’ve never experienced the man in all his naked glory. And even with my flawed vision, the man is still glorious. Muscles for days, dark hair on his chest, and that impressive cock, half hard, with a drop of water sliding down it.
My mouth waters, and I should go. Ireallyshould go. “I…”
But have I ever spoken before? Do I even know how to make words? How to move my feet? They’re currently glued to the tile.
Lake doesn’t seem fazed. He’s amused as he lifts the towel and runs it over his hair. His hair! He doesn’t even attempt to cover up his birthday suit. Just lazily dries his locks with the white terrycloth as I stare at all of him, ink and skin and muscles.
“If I’d known you wanted to join, I wouldn’t have gotten out yet.”
The easy rasp. The hint of a tease. The cocky assurance.
It snaps me out of my six-foot-two naked hockey player haze.
“Sorry, I thought it was raining,” I blurt out, then spin around and hightail it out of the bathroom, and dive into the bed alone with my mortification.
And, unfortunately, my arousal.
I pull the duvet over my head, willing myself to fall asleep.
C’mon, brain.
I even bragged to him about being able to fall asleep fast. Now would be a really good time to show off that skill.
But nope, my overactive, overthinking, overeager brain is caught in a loop.
A loop of Lake with droplets sliding down his strong chest. Lake with a roguish smirk. Lake sporting all the confidence in the world.
Ugh.
I squeeze my eyes shut, failing miserably in my quest to nod off when the door creaks open.
Is he still naked? I don’t look. I can’t look. He caught me gawking at him shamelessly.
Footsteps pad across the carpet. The rustle of soft blankets floats past me. The mattress dips.
I try not to inhale him, but I catch the clean, soapy, masculine scent of him as I burrow under the covers, pretending to be asleep.
Breathing in, breathing out. My stomach flips again as I draw in the intoxicating smell of him.
I just love the scent of a clean man.
He says nothing, but I swear I can feel his satisfied grin burning a hole through the atmosphere right now.
He sighs, a big, loud one, chased by an even louder yawn. “I’m so tuckered out,” he says, like he’s muttering to himself.
Oh my god. The fucker is taunting me.
I dig in, keeping my body as still as possible under the duvet, my breathing as steady as if I were asleep.
“What a day,” he adds in another hearty sigh.
He shifts a little, then punches a pillow. Again and again.
“There. That’s better,” he says to his audience of one.
I grit my teeth, but I am committed to my role too.
“I’ll just close my eyes and go to sleep,” he says.
