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“Smells delicious.”
She must see something on my face because her expression changes slightly. “He’s up in his bedroom.”
“What is he doing up there at five thirty?” I mutter, mostly to myself. I turn to leave, waving my thanks to Stella, who is now chuckling to herself.
I head upstairs and tap on his bedroom door.
There’s no response.
Frowning, I knock again, and again there’s no response.
This is ridiculous. He was better this morning. He wasn’t closing me out. I’m not going to let him slam another door in my face just when I was making a little progress.
So I take a deep breath and open the door.
The room appears empty. Nothing but his big bed with its walnut four-poster frame, a long dresser, and the small sitting area over by the bay window. But the door to the attached bathroom is half-open, and from it I hear the unmistakable sound of music—some sort of dramatic classical stuff I don’t recognize—and spraying water.
Oh. He’s taking a shower.
It’s definitely not his normal routine, but it’s a completely harmless thing for him to be doing right now. I’ll give him some time and then come to find him. Maybe we can have dinner together and hang out this evening.
I’ve turned to leave when I hear something else. It’s almost drowned by the music and the shower sprays, but I recognize it. A long, soft, hoarse, sustained groan.
Arthur.
My mind immediately jumps into crisis mode. Maybe his back gave out. Or he slipped in the shower. He might be hurt. I absolutely have to check. The man is so proud and stubborn that he might not even ask for help when injured.
I hurry to the doorway and look inside. His bathroom is even bigger than the one in my suite, with two marble-topped vanities in dark wood, large silver-framed mirrors, a separate room for the toilet, and a huge glass-enclosed shower with walls tiled beautifully in various shades of gray.
Arthur is indeed in the shower, facing away from me, toward the wall. The music and the sound of water are both significantly louder from in here, and he clearly has no idea of my presence. The glass walls of the enclosure are starting to get foggy but not enough to disguise his naked body.
His long hair is plastered wetly around his neck and shoulders. His strong back tapers down to lean hips and a deliciously tight butt. His legs are long, but soon my attention moves elsewhere.
He’s leaning over slightly, bracing against the tile wall with one hand. The other hand is moving in a fast, choppy motion, just lower than his middle.
I can’t actually see that hand or his groin, but there’s no question what he’s doing.
As I stare, he releases another one of those groans.
If sex had a voice, it would be that long, thick moan.
My whole body goes hot. Arousal pulses achingly between my thighs. I’m turned on so intensely and so quickly I can barely take a full breath.
His hand is speeding up. His body tightening. His ass cheeks make small rhythmic clenches.
He jerks his head up and pushes hard against the tile with his bracing hand. Bites out “Scarlett” just before his body shudders with release.
He’s making pleased, gaspy sounds when I finally come back to my senses.
What the hell am I doing? This is an intensely private act, and he has no idea that I’m here. I’m spying on him like a gangly adolescent, too immature to recognize boundaries.
I turn on my heel and hurry out of the bathroom and then out of his bedroom. Guilty and flustered and in a panic, I run all the way down the hall to my suite, throwing myself into my room and closing the door behind me.
Oh my God.
That was probably the hottest, most erotic moment of my life. I’ve had sex before, and it was good, but it never made me feel likethis.
But it was wrong. I never should have witnessed what I saw. And I absolutely have to stop visualizing it now.
