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I close my eyes as a flush heats my cheeks while he snickers behind me. “Not on purpose.” That’s all I can manage to croak out before practically flying to the bathroom, where I lock the door and turn on the sink to drown out any more laughter coming from the bedroom.

This is insane. All night, there was only one thing on my mind, haunting my dreams: Adrian’s offer to give me real-world experience that I can use in my books. Thank God I didn’t moan or anything, since all I could dream about was him and I doing all the things I’ve watched in videos and written about.

Wait. What if I did moan? Did I, like, subconsciously snuggle up close to him because of my dreams? God, I want to die. How much embarrassment can a girl take before her heart gives out?

It’s already a miracle I didn’t drop dead of shock when he basically offered to be my sex tutor yesterday. My sexy Sherpa.

I mean . . . it’s not a terrible idea, right? That’s not my body doing the thinking for me either. There won’t be any threat of complications later on since there won’t be a later on for us. Once this is all over, we never have to see each other again.

In other words, he’s the perfect person to have a little fun with now and forget about later. What am I saving my virginity for, anyway? It’s not like anyone’s going to give me an award for keeping my legs closed all these years.

I have to rinse my face with cold water to cool the flush still coloring my cheeks. It’s not easy to meet my own gaze in the mirror, mostly because I know I’m lying to myself. I hate lying, especially to myself, but here I am, coming up with every excuse imaginable to justify getting into bed with this man.

“You will not let your horniness talk you into this.” I point a finger at myself, tapping it against the mirror. “You will not. You’re better than that. And you’re going to catch feelings. You know you will, you idiot. Quit kidding yourself.”

I can be very stern with myself when I need to be. The problem is, I don’t always listen to my inner voice.

This isn’t the time for ignoring what I know to be true. I’ll end up with my heart broken in the end. And I’m not trying to get any real-life experience with crushing heartbreak.

By the time I’m finished and can’t possibly stall any longer, I’ve made up my mind. Adrian’s offer is intriguing—extremely, almost annoyingly intriguing—but that doesn’t mean I have to accept. I probably do need to gain a little experience, and not only for the sake of my books. I’m a grown woman, and my body is clearly ready for a little action.

And I am completely sure of that right up to the point where I open the bathroom door and find him doing push-ups on the bedroom floor. Not just push-ups. Shirtless push-ups. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs as he raises himself up and down.

And here I am, leaning against the doorframe for support because my legs suddenly decided they don’t feel like keeping me upright anymore.

Either he’s so focused on his workout he doesn’t know I’m watching, or he doesn’t care. Maybe he wants me to watch, come to think of it. He’s messing with me, isn’t he? Teasing me every way he can.

And guess what? It’s working. The jerk. The stupid, hot jerk.

He’s like a living, breathing statue carved from marble, if those were covered in tattoos. I’m not supposed to stand here and stare at him and try to remember how to breathe? His muscles move under his smooth, tanned skin, working together the way my lady parts are working together to make taking him up on his offer sound like a very good idea. I mean, he hasn’t laid a finger on me, but I’m getting wet just watching his shoulders flex and his biceps bulge. His butt is like a ripe peach, and all of a sudden I’m very hungry.

Okay, so maybe sleeping with him wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I can deal with it. I’m an adult, the same as him. I just have to handle myself, that’s all.

Stop this! What am I thinking? I need to get out of this room, that’s obvious. Why is it he has to be so tempting? This is a dangerous guy. Everything about him screams do not touch—at least figuratively. His body screams the opposite.

“Are you . . . going to stand there . . . all morning?” He’s huffing and puffing, still moving smoothly through one push-up after another. How many so far? I haven’t been counting. I don’t know if my brain is capable of that right now. All my intelligence has left the building, let’s just put it that way.

“I’ll make breakfast.” Do I have the first idea what to make? No. But it has to be better than standing here imagining those rippling muscles moving under my hands, right? I mean, I can just as easily imagine that while I’m in the kitchen, but somehow it feels safer to not be in the same room.

Is this how it’s supposed to be? I mean, have I been asleep my whole life? I’m kind of getting the feeling I have been, since all it takes is the sight of one shirtless man to pretty much soak my panties.

I’ve never, ever felt this way about anybody. I mean, it’s not exactly an accident, me still being a virgin. There have been times I’ve wondered if there was something wrong with me. Other girls would swoon over the guys hitting on them, while they never got me all hot and bothered. Not like today. Not like Adrian. No one could ever measure up to my fantasies—not until him.

I root through the fridge, wondering what kind of psycho stores bread in there. See? This is as good a reason as any not to sleep with him. He keeps bread in the refrigerator. Next, I’ll find out he kills puppies or something.

By the time I’ve decided to get started on French toast, I hear him moving around in the bedroom. It’s a damn good thing I already cracked and whipped the eggs, since my hands won’t stop shaking.

“What did you decide on?” he asks, stepping into the kitchen. There’s a touch of laughter dancing around the edges of his words. I’m glad he finds all this so damn amusing.

“French toast. And by the way,” I add over my shoulder, “only weirdos keep bread in the fridge.”

“It stays fresher longer that way.” Before I know it, he’s next to me at the counter, opening the bag. Dammit, he’s so fresh from that workout I can practically taste it—there’s still a thin sheet of perspiration on his skin, highlighting every last muscle before I have the good sense to look away. There is something painfully masculine about the scent of his sweat, something that has never done anything for me in the past. It’s like everything about him was manufactured to reach something in me. Frankly, it’s damn unfair.

“See?” He pulls out a slice and holds it out like I’m supposed to inspect it. “Soft. Nice and fresh. It even smells good.” He has to go and hold it to his nose, eyes closing as he inhales. How does he make it look sexy? He’s sniffing bread, but all I can imagine is him sniffing me. It’s enough to make me want to lean in and offer my neck for inspection next.

“Thanks very much for the assessment.” I snatch the slice from him, then jerk my head back toward the bedroom door. “You should take a shower before breakfast. No offense, but I don’t feel like eating with somebody who smells like they just worked out.”

“That’s only because I’m standing so close to you right now.” Damn that wicked gleam in his eyes when he leans in, lowering his voice like there’s a secret we share. “I won’t be this close to you while we’re eating. Unless you want me to be, that is.”