“And he can cook,” I mumbled to myself as I stuffed my face with a mix of finger foods he’d made. Bruschetta, stuffed mushrooms, antipasto skewers, and stuffed Prosciutto cups. “He can’t be all bad if he can cook.” I mean, I couldn’t think of a single movie villain who could make food better than my mother.
After dinner, not sure what else to do with myself, I took myself into the bathroom for another long, lingering soak in the bathtub I’d struck up a pretty serious relationship with already.
Below me, the sounds of the party lowered and lowered until I was sure no one was left.
Except my husband who made his way upstairs a couple minutes later, going into the bedroom. I figured he would stop there.
But then the bathroom door opened.
“Hey, I’m in here,” I called, arm slapping over my chest.
“I see that,” Primo said, pulling off his cufflinks, then his watch, his belt.
“What are you doing?” I asked, pretending it was pure worry that had my mouth going so dry as he slipped out of his jacket then yanked his shirt out of his pants.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked, making short work of the buttons, then whipping off his shirt.
“You can wait your turn,” I told him.
“It’s been a long day, Isabella,” he told me as his hands went to his fly.
It was alright.
Really, it was no big deal.
I’d seen the man disrobe before.
Why he felt the need to do it right in front of me was completely beyond me, but it wasn’t a big deal.
Except the weird thrumming of my pulse said it was maybe a little bit of a big deal.
Primo’s slacks fell to his feet, leaving him in another pair of black boxer briefs, but this time giving me the view of them from the back.
I was not the kind of woman who was into a man’s ass. It had never been my thing. I liked arms and hands and chests and backs, but not asses.
That said, Primo’s ass?
It was a good one, okay.
High, firm, rounded, a testament to the time he must have spent in the gym, even though I hadn’t seen him get up early to do so yet before he got showered and dressed for his day.
I figured he was going to go ahead and floss and brush, so he could get to sleep.
I did not expect for him to hook his fingers into those boxer briefs and start pulling them down.
I wanted to call it panic that flooded my system right then, even if a little voice in the back of my head knew better.
“Primo, get out,” I demanded.
“There is one full bathroom in this apartment, Isabella. And you’re in it,” he told me as the boxer briefs fell to the floor, giving me a view of that perfect ass of his without the material covering it.
“Then leave, and I will get out of it,” I said.
“No,” he shot back.
And then he turned.
I repeat… the man turned.
And I got a full side view of his naked body.
I want to say I didn’t look. If anyone ever asked, I would tell them I didn’t. But I did. I absolutely did.
There were all the firm lines I’d become acquainted with when he’d undressed before. But there was one part of him I hadn’t seen. Felt, when I woke up on top of him? Yes. But never seen.
Even not hard, though, he was impressive in size.
And I became very aware of the hollow space inside me, and the way he would fill it perfectly.
What?
No.
Damnit.
My gaze lowered as Primo made his way into the shower stall, turning on the water at full blast, then walking into the spray before it even got a chance to warm up.
What kind of animal did that?
Then, well, I had nothing to do. I couldn’t get away from him. Not without him getting a good eyeful of me since my towel would require me to stand up to reach for it. So I just had to stay there.
What can I say?
My curiosity got the better of me right then.
And my head raised just a bit; my gaze lifted.
Then there he was.
In all of his naked glory.
He stood under the spray, one hand resting on the wall, letting the water cascade down his neck and body. Delicate white soap bubbles drifted down over his skin—neck, shoulders, back, stomach, ass, and legs.
But none of that really held my attention at all.
Because something else was demanding it.
Namely, the fact that his cock had hardened while he stood there, stretching out, impossibly long and thick, just begging for release.
I wasn’t exactly surprised by the throbbing between my thighs right then. It was a normal, healthy response from the body of a woman looking at a man’s naked body. It had nothing to do with him personally.