Page 157

Behind the glass, facing the water, head tipped back, broad shoulders slick with water. Every line of him feels unfair this early in the morning.

I open the shower door.

He looks over his shoulder. His eyes drop—unhurried over my naked body, from my face down the length of my body and then back up.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning."

I step in behind him. The water is hot, the steam thick, and his skin is warm and slick when I press my chest to his back and slide my arms around his waist... Then lower.

His breath shifts.

My hand wraps around his hard length. Already ready for me, because apparently his body knows what mine wants before his brain catches up. I stroke once, slow, and feel him thicken even harder in my grip. I do it twice more, and then his head tips back.

"Aria."

"Mmm." I press my mouth between his shoulder blades and stroke again. Tighter this time.

His hand closes over my wrist. He's not stopping me.

"As much as I want to fuck my wife in this shower," he says, his voice low and rough, "I have something to show you."

I go still.

"Now?"

"Now." His thumb traces a circle over my wrist. "Trust me. We’ll get back to this."

I release him reluctantly, making sure he feels exactly how reluctant in the drag of my fingers, and he turns around. Water streams down his chest. His eyes are dark. The evidence of what I was doing to him is still very obvious between us.

"This better be good," I say.

His mouth shifts into a smirk.

"It is."

We step out. He wraps a towel around his hips, then reaches past me for the T-shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door—his, soft gray, worn thin. He pulls it over my head himself. Tugs it down over my shoulders, my breasts, my hips, until it falls to mid-thigh.

His hands stay on the hem for a second, thumbs brushing my bare thighs.

"I want you in only this all day," he says.

Heat pools low in my stomach.

"That can be arranged."

He drops the towel and pulls on a pair of black boxer briefs. Nothing else before taking my hand.

"Come on."

He leads me out of the bedroom and down the hallway, and I follow—my hand in his, my body still humming from the shower, my eyes completely incapable of looking anywhere except the man walking in front of me. He keeps stealing peeks over his shoulder as if making sure I’m still there, even though my fingers are wrapped between his.

His back is a landscape. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Muscles shifting under damp skin with every step. The boxer briefs sit low enough on his body to feel like a deliberate act of provocation.

I’m staring and I don’t even care if he notices.

He turns into the west wing corridor—the one that was blocked off last night by opaque plastic sheeting—and stops.