The Hot One

She inhales sharply. “I mean it. I can’t think at all.” She turns on her flip-flopped foot, yanks open the door, and strides in the hall.

Oops.

That wasn’t part of the plan. Time to improvise, since I’ve got no choice but to follow her. I don’t want her to get away from me again.

“Give me a chance, Delaney,” I say firmly. I won’t beg. But I will speak my mind. I cup a hand over my dick and walk into the hall.

Double fucking oops.

This time the coast isn’t clear. It’s stuffed with people, who all catch a glimpse of my Garden of Eden attire, my hand mimicking Adam’s fig leaf.

A short, muscular, forty-something woman wanders out of the ladies’ room and snaps her head toward me, her eyes widening.

A masseuse sporting a long braid down her back steps out of a massage room, calling over her shoulder, “Yes, come see me again tomorrow.” Then she sees me and asks, “Are you my ten a.m.?”

I’m about to answer with a no when Felipe rounds the corner and halts in his tracks. His eyebrows rise, and he clasps his hand over his mouth gasping, “Oh my.”

I raise my other hand in a casual wave. “Like I said, not a fan of robes.”

As his eyes roam my body, he utters, “I’m not a fan of robes anymore, either.”

The muscular woman waves her hand, like she’s calling for attention in class. “Honey—” The woman levels a sharp gaze at Delaney. “You need to give that man a chance.”

Delaney smiles tightly, nodding a thanks that I’m sure is hard as hell for her to give. Especially since I have more supporters.

The masseuse with the braid pipes in. “If not, I’ll take your chance.”

With her jaw set hard, Delaney gives a quick, “thanks for the feedback” wave, then spins around, smoke seeming to billow from her nose. She sets a hand on my chest and pushes me back into the Rainfall Room.

She slams the door behind her.





7





Delaney



* * *



This stunt.

This crazy, ridiculous, over-the-top stunt.

This goddamn parade of flesh.

I just . . . can’t even.

Can’t even stand how ballsy he is.

Can’t even comprehend what the hell I’m supposed to think, feel, or do.

He waltzed out naked in front of my employees and customers.

And now he’s nude here with me.

I stand in the massage room, my arms crossed over my chest as I lock my gaze with Tyler’s.

Let me state this for the record—I didn’t drag him back in this room because of that body. I’m not that shallow. But it's impossible not to notice his finer features.

His shoulders are deliciously broad, his arms are muscular, and his chest operates like a magnet for my hands. I cross my arms tighter to resist the force of attraction.

Don’t even get me started on those magazine-spread abs. A six-pack is my shrine. I want to touch it, lick it, and rub my head against it like a cat rolling in catnip. Meow, indeed.

I dig in my heels. Push my toes against the soles of my shoes, like I’m holding firm with my feet alone.

And let’s not forget his legs. His thighs are toned and look powerful. His calves are strong. He even has seductive knees, and hell if I know how that’s possible. Knees aren’t so sexy, but connecting those thighs to those calves, they are a mild aphrodisiac. My mouth waters as I take him in, and sadly I can’t even see his ass.

That’s what is so freaking unfair. I meant it when I said I can’t think straight. How could I? He’s naked. N-A-K-E-D. In front of me. Asking for a second chance.

This is the definition of “rock and a hard place.”

Because it’s him.

Tyler Nichols is more than the opening act, the closing act, and the main attraction of my dirty dreams. He’s the one who got away. He’s the guy I loved more than sprinkles. He’s the man who made me feel beautiful, adored, and cherished.

Speaking of all his parts . . .

Even though my eyes are locked with his, I got more than a peek of his cock. The man has a magnificent dick. Long, thick, proud, with just the perfect left hook to it.

It looks great soft. It looks glorious when it’s unapologetically hard.

But none of this would matter without the face. His eyes are like chocolate, his cheekbones could be carved by sculptors, and his lips are so damn kissable. His brown hair is thick, soft, and a little bit in need of a cut. The slightly unkempt style makes me want to drag my fingers through it.

And yes, my ode to his body might sound like I’m obsessed with the surface. But what I can’t get out of my head is that he pulled this off. He wanted to apologize properly so much that he stripped to his full birthday suit here at my spa, giving a preview of most of his parts to my staff and customers in the hallway.

And I honestly don’t know whether to slap him or grind my body against him.

I can’t be completely mad because it’s just so over the top, and that’s what I used to love about him.

Even so, the pissed-off part jostles its way to the front of the line, pointing out the insanity of him strutting around as naked as the statue of David. I narrow my eyes, uncross my arms, and push my hands to his chest. “Are you crazy?”

He nods and wiggles his eyebrows. “I might be.”

“You think after eight years, you can just wander in here, do a little Magic Mike mea culpa, and that’s it? That’s all it takes to get me back?”

“I’m not asking you for a shot. I’m asking you to have a drink.”

I push harder at his chest, so his butt hits the edge of the massage table. “I know that, Tyler Nichols. I’m clear on what you’re asking. And what is really driving me crazy now is one thing.”

“Is it the sheer amount of naked skin in front of you?” he asks gesturing to his body. “I don’t like robes, sweetheart. You know that.”

An image of him in college, walking down the dorm hall covered by nothing but a white towel cinched around his tight waist flashes before my eyes. I’d stayed in his room the night before, and he joined me in the shower the next morning. He washed my hair, lathered it up, and then gave me one hell of an amazing scalp massage. I believe I purred the whole time. Then, after he rinsed the shampoo from my hair, his hands mapped a winding path down my body, over my breasts, across my belly, and between my legs. As the water beat down, he slipped his fingers across me, then inside, then there, right there, as he stoked the fire in me, making me pant and moan and bite his shoulder when I came. After the shower, I scurried down the hall ahead of him. When I reached the door to his room, I glanced behind me and all I could think was how unbearably hot he was with that towel hanging low on his hips, his skin glistening post-shower.

He walked with swagger.

With confidence.

With ridiculous sexiness. And he was mine. Every part of him—that body, that face, his bold, daring mouth—and his mind, too. When he reached his room, I wiggled my eyebrows. “I’m so glad you don’t wear a robe.”