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“You should strip out of the wet bikini,” he said, his eyes flicking down over her body as he spoke. “Wrap yourself in this.”
“But I’ll be naked.” She sounded like an outraged old maid, but she couldn’t help herself.
His lips twitched with what looked suspiciously like humor and he lifted his closed fist to his mouth and coughed—laughed?—before speaking. “Not naked. You’ll be wearing the towel.”
“Are you coming in as well?”
“I am.”
“But…” Her protest petered out beneath the weight of his penetrative stare.
“I assure you, you’ll be perfectly safe with me, Miss Hughes.”
God, she’d been here for two days and this man had already seen her fully—and near—naked three times. He might be quite at home with casual nudity, but that wasn’t her. She’d never nonchalantly slip out of her clothing in front of someone who was essentially a stranger to her, and she didn’t care if he found that gauche or naive. They inhabited very different universes and had very different ideas of what constituted normal.
And did he really have to keep reminding her that he had no interest in her? Okay, she was fair enough to acknowledge that maybe it was his way of reassuring her, since she tended to get all hysterical every time this naked shit happened. But couldn’t he reassure her by saying stuff like, “While I find you irresistible, Miss Hughes, I will manfully abstain from touching you! Even though it pains me to do so!”?
She smothered a giggle at the preposterous thought but it was a welcome distraction from her current awkward reality.
“Fine,” she blurted out, fighting back a blush as she snatched the towel from him. “But you’re going to have to turn around.”
He folded his arms over his chest and turned, presenting her with a fine view of his gorgeous, muscular back and that famous perfect arse.
She allowed herself a hypocritical moment of gawking before hastily wrapping the towel around her body and attempting to slide out of her wet bikini. She made it harder on herself by trying to shimmy out of the wet costume from beneath the towel, but after a few minutes of struggling, and soft cursing, she was free of the bathing suit.
“Can I turn around?”
“Uh, yes. Okay.” Her face was bright red from exertion and embarrassment and she was panting from the rigorous activity. He turned and gave her a leisurely inspection, forcing her to clutch the towel even tighter over her chest.
His stare dropped to the pink and white bits of wet fabric and string she held clutched in one hand.
“You can toss those in the laundry basket,” he said, tilting his chin toward a bamboo hamper she hadn’t noticed beside the sauna door.
“Thanks.”
Her eyes didn’t know where to focus—he had so much gleaming golden skin on display—and she didn’t want to be caught staring. Not after making such a fuss about her own nudity. It had been easier in the spa when he’d been submerged up to his clavicles. Now that body, which had had millions of women swooning after a full-frontal nude scene in his last movie, was fully on display in all its ridiculous magnificence.
He grabbed another—smaller—towel from the shelves next to the hamper and—without warning—turned away from her, hooked his thumbs into the sides of his wet board shorts, and unceremoniously tugged them down over that perfectly sculpted butt. He bent at the waist as he dragged them down past his thighs to his knees before he stepped out of them and picked them up.
Iris, who’d made a choking sound as soon as she’d understood what was happening, had one hand clamped over her mouth, eyes glued to the man, willing herself to look away but quite unable to physically do so.
He turned toward her and a muffled squeak sounded from behind her hand. She squeezed her eyes shut, not sure if he was going to make use of that towel or not.
“You can look,” he invited, laughter threaded through his voice.
Iris opened one eye cautiously and sighed in quiet relief, before opening the other. He’d fastened the towel around his hips, but the inadequate scrap of cloth only provided the barest nod to modesty. It was little bigger than a hand towel and gaped over one thickly muscled thigh. It was also very short, and only just covered his bits . . . although she couldn’t be too sure of that because she didn’t want to stare too long at the spot where he bulged against the front of the towel.
Iris wasn’t a novice when it came to men, but the few guys she’d been with had been mere boys compared to this man. Trystan was bigger—all over—and more self-assured in his masculinity than any of her boyfriends had been. His magnetism and self-confidence were overwhelming and Iris found herself a little out of her depth around him. Especially when he was wearing nothing but a towel that seemed to be staying put through sheer force of will.
“Shall we?” he asked, holding the sauna door open for her. She ran her damp palms over the front of her fluffy towel and nodded, stepping past him into the hot and humid room that smelled faintly of cedar wood and eucalyptus—the latter of which she assumed was from essential oils.
She sat herself down on the lowest bench, tucking her knees and feet primly together and resting her palms on her thighs. She knew she probably resembled a schoolgirl posing for a class picture, but she couldn’t help it. She was so tense. If he believed this would relax her, he was sorely mistaken. This was probably one of the tensest, most stressful situations in which she’d ever found herself.
He looked at her for a long moment, a smirk on his arrogant, handsome face, before he shook his head and sat diagonally across—and a level up—from her.
No, he didn’t sit. He sprawled. Spreading himself out, arms stretched across the top of the bench, thighs apart, with the towel tucked between them. Every muscle bulging and gleaming and displayed to perfection.
It was annoying how he could look so goddamned flawless without even trying.
