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I can hear him move about the tiny space. The sound of a zipper—most likely his toiletry bag. The clink of something set on the tiled countertop. Water running. A brush gliding through hair. Yes, I’m that attuned to every little thing he’s doing.

Without warning, he emerges from the bathroom, a white towel slung low around his hips, his shoulders and chest covered with water droplets. Men don’t thoroughly dry themselves off after a shower and I’ve never understood why, but at this moment, I’m not complaining.

Those drops slide down his skin. Through the tufts of dark hair at the center of his chest. Down the flat expanse of his belly. That towel hangs perilously from his lean hips, like it might fall off at any moment, and I wait breathlessly for it to do exactly that.

“Are you spying on me?” Spence asks, sounding amused.

My gaze meets his dark one through the crack of the open door and I jerk away, my entire body flushing with embarrassment. And something else.

Arousal.

I back away at the exact moment my bedroom door swings open, revealing Spencer standing in the doorframe, clad in a towel and nothing else. His dark hair slicked back just as I imagined. I swear I can see the outline of his cock beneath the towel and I stare at it for a moment, wishing I had see-through vision.

“Syl.” His deep voice causes me to jump, my gaze finding his. His deep brown eyes are sparkling and his lips are curved in a knowing smirk.

I brush the hair away from my face, flustered. “Sorry, I just—”

“I thought you were taking a nap.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I confess.

We watch each other for a moment, the tension growing as per usual. It always does between us, making it near impossible to fight.

“You’re staring,” he finally murmurs.

“I can’t help it. Look at you.” I wave a helpless hand in his direction.

His smirk stays firmly in place. Damn him. And when he scratches his chest, my gaze tracks his fingers’ every move. “You’ve seen it before.”

“Not for a long time.” I swallow, my gaze greedy. “You’ve changed.”

He glances down at himself before returning his gaze to mine, his brows furrowed. “How?”

“You’re…bigger. Wider. There’s more hair on your chest.” That trail that leads from his navel and disappears into his towel is intriguing too. Far more intriguing than the hair between his pecs.

He chuckles. “I suppose. You’ve changed too.”

“You haven’t seen me naked yet.” I lift my chin, fighting the trembling that wants to take over my body. I can smell his skin. Clean and fresh. A hint of sandalwood. I’m dying to press my face into his neck and inhale his scent.

“You haven’t seen me naked yet either.” One large hand settles on top of the towel knotted at his waist, his fingers curling around the thick white terrycloth, and I wait in breathless anticipation. “Though I think you want to.”

“Spencer…” My voice is a warning. He can’t tease me. We probably shouldn’t do this. He’d be the first to say exactly that. Yet here he stands, about ready to whip his towel off and show me everything he’s got.

Then he’d expect me to do the same, and God, I would. Despite feeling a little sticky with sweat and the salty ocean air still lingering on my skin, thanks to the hike we took earlier, I would strip myself bare for this man and let him run his hands and mouth and tongue all over me.

He is the only one I would do this for.

A sigh leaves him and his hand drops from the towel. “I don’t know why we always do this.”

I ignore the disappointment flooding my veins. “Do what?”

“Tease each other. Sexually.”

“Maybe we still want each other. Even after all of these years.”

“More like it’s just old habits die hard, if you ask me.”

The disappointment is replaced with frustration. How can he write us off like that? Tear down what we have and render it meaningless?


Tags: Monica Murphy Romance