Cheryl Holt Read Free

some point, fatigue overwhelmed her, and she dozed. When she opened her eyes again, she’d slept for quite a while. The water had cooled, so she stood, letting it sluice off her skin, then she climbed out onto the rug and snatched one of the towels.
    Commencing at her neck, she worked across her breasts, her stomach. Briefly, she rasped across the delicate cleft between her legs, but she didn’t care for the stimulation it induced, so she bent over and rubbed down thigh and calf. As she straightened, movement captured her attention, and she glanced into the mirror.
    A man was lounging behind her, perfectly at home, and casually viewing all! The sight was so startling that she was temporarily paralyzed, incapable of processing what she was witnessing. His appearance seemed like a dream, and she narrowed her focus at his reflection, grappling to make sense of the bizarre development.
    Not an illusion, he was really and truly there.
    Tall, with trimmed black hair and striking sapphire eyes, he was a ravishing man—perhaps the most handsome she’d ever encountered. He had high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, a generous mouth. His wide shoulders tapered to a thin waist, lanky hips, long legs, and powerful, muscled thighs.
    He wore only a pair of fitted trousers, no shirt or shoes, and she was tantalized by the absurd observation that she’d never before beheld a man’s unclad chest. It was covered by an intriguing fur of dark hair, piled thick on top then dwindling across his flat stomach to a slim line that disappeared into the waistband of his pants. The top two buttonswere undone, so she could see much farther than she ought, and the spectacle was perturbing and exhilarating in a manner she didn’t comprehend.
    “Lovely . . .” he murmured in an enticing baritone that skittered across her nerve endings and induced her abdomen to clench in response.
    The peculiar salutation snapped her into action, and she whirled to face him. Nervously, she clutched at the towel, desperately striving to shield herself, but his probing examination slithered over her like a tangible caress, lingering on her lips, her breasts, the juncture between her thighs.
    “How did you get in here?” she reproached, endeavoring to sound adamant and assertive, but the quaver in her voice communicated her uneasiness.
    “Through the door.” He gestured, and she noticed a second screen and a door behind it, adjoining her dressing room to the next bedchamber.
    He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. “You’re not welcome. Leave at once!”
    “Are you sure you want me to go?”
    “Absolutely!”
    “But wouldn’t it be more amusing if I stayed? You could climb in the tub again, and I could wash you. Or”—he glanced down at his pants that so graphically outlined his masculine form—“I could soak in the water, and you could bathe
me
. Either way, I promise the experience will be everything you desire. And more.”
    A man and a woman bathing? Together? Washing? Each other? A whirl of incredulous scenes flashed through her mind, and her heart raced.
    His fingers went to the front of his trousers and touched the placard as though he was about to release the rest of the buttons and strip himself. Panicked, she kept her gaze bravely affixed to his. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    “Disrobing.”
    “Don’t you dare!”
    He chuckled, oozing charm. “I’d heard you were eager, but I don’t mind prolonging things with a few games.”
    She had no idea what he meant and couldn’t even hazard a guess. Flustered, she resorted to the type of polite disdain she regularly employed with recalcitrant underlings. “I’ve politely requested that you leave, and now I insist.”
    “Before you’ve had your fun?”
    The question was mildly raised, his tone one of intimate promise about matters she didn’t understand. There was a confidence and subdued arrogance in his demeanor that seemed to guarantee gratification.
    He moved