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“Whoa,” I say.
“What?” He frowns.
“You can’t close the door until after I’ve left.”
“But you’ve already seen me naked,” he says.
When he shifted from a horse into a human this morning, I didn’t shy away from taking a peek. But now, the image rises up in my mind like I’m being punished. His long, lean legs. His well-muscled torso and defined chest muscles.
And everything else.
My face must be bright red. “No way. I have to get out.”
“You need to see the clothing, though. What’s the problem with—”
I press my hand against his chest, and then I realize my mistake. Even through his t-shirt, he’s warm and hard and. . .
My mouth goes dry.
I drop my hand and back up, but there’s exactly three feet of space in this ridiculous little cube, and he’s taking up two and a half feet of it. He’s staring at me, watching my reaction carefully. “Why are you blushing?”
“I’m not. It’s just hot in here.” I pinch two fingers together and fan the front of my shirt. “That’s all. Now, let me out.”
“Surely you can’t object to me trying just the shirts.” He whips his shirt up and over his head, and suddenly it’s all right there in front of me. Shoulders, rounded, rippling, gleaming.
Oh, no.
My eyes do not listen to my brain’s commands, traveling slowly down his frame toward his lovely, well-rounded chest muscles, where they just stop listening to any part of me and gawk openly, my mouth even dangling open a bit.
“Is there something wrong?” He tilts his head. I’m aware of the movement, but I ignore it.
Because now my eyes have dropped to his abs, and holy abdominal bliss. I’ve heard of people having a six pack. I have. I didn’t really think they existed, outside of airbrushed print ads.
I must have spent too much time with thugs and jockeys, because there isn’t an ounce of beer belly, and there isn’t an inch of squidge on his midsection. He’s also far more densely muscled than any jockey in the history of ever, and I find myself counting the rows of abs, and I just stop at four rows, because looking below that line would just be. . . Well. I stop.
It’s not a six pack.
He has an eight pack.
And I’m dying to touch it. My hand starts to move, and then I realize what I’m doing. I’m standing in a dressing room, staring at Alexei’s naked torso. I reach behind myself, snatch a shirt off the hanger, and shove it at him. “Here.”
Then I push past him and shove him aside with my hip. Before I can whip the door open, someone bangs on it.
“Excuse me,” the woman says in Russian. “But we don’t allow men and women to—”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I was just leaving.”
“Why?” Alexei asks.
I open the door, but he puts his hand on the edge of it, preventing me from walking through the gap.
“Why won’t you allow my friend to help me choose which shirt looks best?” He looks genuinely curious. “I’m not very fashionable. I need help.”
“It’s not decent for her to be in here.” But then the woman notices Alexei, her eyes widening as she stares at his face. And widening further as they drop to his shoulders, chest, and abs. She gulps. “Although.” She shrugs. “I mean, I suppose I understand that you might want a woman’s. . .help.”
“No,” I say. “It’s nothing like that.” I step out. “Just put that shirt on and come back out, alright?”
While I walk to the front of the dressing room area, the woman follows, trotting after me with a conspiratorial smile. “Wow,” she says. “I mean, his face was. . .” She whistles. “But that body. He was kind of hiding that under there before.”
