Heated

“There are a lot of ways to pleasure a woman,” he said, and his tone suggested we hadn’t even begun. “Hard and raw, soft and sentimental. How can I know what she wants until I see how she reacts?”


“Oh.” I swallowed. “And what is it that I want?”

“You? Sweetheart, you want everything,” he said in a tone that made me go weak in the knees. “And I’m looking forward to giving it to you.” He nodded to the tub again. “In.”

I didn’t argue. Merely moved carefully on the cool marble up to the edge of the tub. I tested the water and found it to be the perfect temperature, a little on the hot side, but nowhere close to scalding. With a sigh of absolute pleasure, I slid in.

Tyler tucked an inflatable pillow behind my head and I smiled up at him. “Joining me?”

“No,” he said, as he started to take off his watch, a beautiful instrument that looked to my eye like an antique. “I’m not.”

He set the watch carefully on a nearby table, and since he then started to unbutton his shirt, I decided that he must be teasing.

I watched, enjoying myself thoroughly, as he stripped off his shirt. His body was deliciously perfect, tan and lean, with the kind of defined arms and chest that you’d see on a swimmer. I wanted to reach out and touch him. To find out for myself if the smattering of chest hair was as soft as it looked, and if the muscles were as hard. I wanted to run my lips over every inch of him.

Mostly, I wanted to tumble him into the tub with me.

Instead, I settled for watching him sit on the edge, still in those elegant gray trousers. He looked like something from a pin-up calendar, all easy sensuality in slacks with no shirt and his hair slightly tousled.

He was exceptional, and I couldn’t help but wonder how many women he’d brought to his room, touched, bathed, taken to bed.

I wondered—and wished that I hadn’t let the thought enter my mind. I had no right to jealousy. Tyler wasn’t mine—couldn’t be mine—and whatever connection I might fantasize that I felt tonight was just an illusion. How could it be real when we were both clutching tight to our secrets?

“Deep thoughts?” he asked, stroking my hair.

I smiled up at him. “Just thinking how gorgeous you are.”

His brows lifted. “I’m flattered.”

“Like hell. You know you’re amazing.”

“And in so many ways,” he said, with a cocky grin.

I laughed, then started to splash him. He caught my hand. “Hands on your knees,” he said. “I’m going to bathe you.”

I opened my mouth to—what? Complain? Question? In the end, I said nothing, just leaned back on my pillow with my hands on my knees and let him take charge.

He started with my legs. Gently, he lifted each leg in turn, putting my heel on a little step inside the tub that I guessed was made for that very purpose. He stroked my skin with scented soaps, then slid his slick and slippery hands along my feet, my calves, my thighs. When he reached the juncture, he stroked my sex lightly, sending trills of pleasure dancing through me. And then his hand was gone again, as if he’d intended nothing more than a preview of what was to come.

He moved on to my torso, then my arms and hands, sensually massaging each individual finger until I thought I would go mad with the desire for more, so much more. Then his attention turned to my breasts, caressing and stroking until I could feel every touch in every cell of my body, and my nipples were tight with need.

To my regret, though, he took it no further.

“How do you feel?” he asked, and I blinked my eyes open to see him smiling down at me with a kind of sensual satisfaction. “Relaxed,” I said. “Turned on.”

I saw the flicker in his eyes, but if stroking and touching me had aroused him equally, he didn’t say. Instead, he simply lifted a spray nozzle and gently began to wet my hair.

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