And let’s not forget his legs. His thighs are toned and look powerful. His calves are strong. He even has seductive knees, and hell if I know how that’s possible. Knees aren’t so sexy, but connecting those thighs to those calves, they are a mild aphrodisiac. My mouth waters as I take him in, and sadly I can’t even see his ass.
That’s what is so freaking unfair. I meant it when I said I can’t think straight. How could I? He’s naked. N-A-K-E-D. In front of me. Asking for a second chance.
This is the definition of “rock and a hard place.”
Because it’s him.
Tyler Nichols is more than the opening act, the closing act, and the main attraction of my dirty dreams. He’s the one who got away. He’s the guy I loved more than sprinkles. He’s the man who made me feel beautiful, adored, and cherished.
Speaking of all his parts . . .
Even though my eyes are locked with his, I got more than a peek of his cock. The man has a magnificent dick. Long, thick, proud, with just the perfect left hook to it.
It looks great soft. It looks glorious when it’s unapologetically hard.
But none of this would matter without the face. His eyes are like chocolate, his cheekbones could be carved by sculptors, and his lips are so damn kissable. His brown hair is thick, soft, and a little bit in need of a cut. The slightly unkempt style makes me want to drag my fingers through it.
And yes, my ode to his body might sound like I’m obsessed with the surface. But what I can’t get out of my head is that he pulled this off. He wanted to apologize properly so much that he stripped to his full birthday suit here at my spa, giving a preview of most of his parts to my staff and customers in the hallway.
And I honestly don’t know whether to slap him or grind my body against him.
I can’t be completely mad because it’s just so over the top, and that’s what I used to love about him.
Even so, the pissed-off part jostles its way to the front of the line, pointing out the insanity of him strutting around as naked as the statue of David. I narrow my eyes, uncross my arms, and push my hands to his chest. “Are you crazy?”
He nods and wiggles his eyebrows. “I might be.”
“You think after eight years, you can just wander in here, do a little Magic Mike mea culpa, and that’s it? That’s all it takes to get me back?”
“I’m not asking you for a shot. I’m asking you to have a drink.”
I push harder at his chest, so his butt hits the edge of the massage table. “I know that, Tyler Nichols. I’m clear on what you’re asking. And what is really driving me crazy now is one thing.”
“Is it the sheer amount of naked skin in front of you?” he asks gesturing to his body. “I don’t like robes, sweetheart. You know that.”
An image of him in college, walking down the dorm hall covered by nothing but a white towel cinched around his tight waist flashes before my eyes. I’d stayed in his room the night before, and he joined me in the shower the next morning. He washed my hair, lathered it up, and then gave me one hell of an amazing scalp massage. I believe I purred the whole time. Then, after he rinsed the shampoo from my hair, his hands mapped a winding path down my body, over my breasts, across my belly, and between my legs. As the water beat down, he slipped his fingers across me, then inside, then there, right there, as he stoked the fire in me, making me pant and moan and bite his shoulder when I came. After the shower, I scurried down the hall ahead of him. When I reached the door to his room, I glanced behind me and all I could think was how unbearably hot he was with that towel hanging low on his hips, his skin glistening post-shower.
He walked with swagger.
With confidence.
With ridiculous sexiness. And he was mine. Every part of him—that body, that face, his bold, daring mouth—and his mind, too. When he reached his room, I wiggled my eyebrows. “I’m so glad you don’t wear a robe.”
“Yeah, why is that?”
“So I can ogle you as you strut down the hall in nothing but that towel.” I pressed my teeth into my lips, savoring the sight of him. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are?”
He shook his head, cupped my cheek, and brought his nose to mine. “No. Why don’t you show me?”
It’s a wonder we ever made it to class with the way we couldn’t stop touching each other.
But yet, we somehow juggled it all.
I’m not sure if it’s the past or the present, the memory of that morning shower or the moment right now with him in the nude. I don’t know which one compels me more, or if both drive me. But my hand is on his chest, and my heart is in my throat, and my body crackles.
I push hard on his pec. He stays rooted to his spot. I push again, though there’s nowhere for him to go. He stands stock-still. Then I grab his nipple and I pinch.
He lets out a small yelp.
“I seriously can’t believe you.” I do it again.
He winces, but maintains his ground. “Believe me.”
“What are you thinking, coming to my business naked? Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m completely sane,” he says, and I twist his nipple once more for good measure.
He grabs my hand, covering it with his bigger one, tugging me even closer. I gasp. The feel of his hand on mine sends a charge through me. I’m not just touching him now. We’re touching each other, and all at once, the drive to hurt him melts away. Fact is, I never wanted to hurt him. I only wanted to have him. And now that I’ve sorted out my shock, my annoyance, my frustration, my I-can’t-believe-you-had-the-nerve-ness, I’m simply done with it.