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All I did know was I was dying of thirst.
Climbing out of bed, I gave my legs a pep talk—promising them that I would never put them through step torture ever again—readjusted my robe so nothing was hanging out, and made my way out into the hall, stepping quietly through the silent house.
I grabbed a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge, then made my way to the sitting room in the new edition, reaching for the television remote, hoping for something to tell me exactly what time it was; if I should be going back to sleep or getting ready for the day.
I had just curled up on the couch when there was a slam that made my heart skitter, followed by steadily approaching footsteps.
I would have been mentally prepared for a guard. For an intruder. For freaking Atanas Chernev wielding a machine gun.
But I was not prepared for this.
For a shirtless Christopher Adamos striding into the sitting room in a pair of low-slung—dangerously low-slung—shorts, sweat glistening over his chest and abdominal muscles.
It was, well, it was a lot.
Too much, really.
For my overworked, undersexed system.
My skin heated, a flush working its way across my chest, up my neck, then blooming over my cheeks.
And I became very, very aware of the fact that I was not wearing panties.
“Miss Miller,” he said, surprised, pulling to a stop, brows furrowing. “I was under the impression you were a late riser.”
“I have no idea what time it is,” I admitted, trying not to watch a bead of sweat slide between his pecs, down his stomach, slipping under the waistband of his pants. Clearly, I was not trying hard enough.
“It’s a quarter after four.”
“In the morning?” I hissed, mouth falling open, eyes scrunching up. “Why?”
“Why is it four in the morning?” he asked.
“Why have you already been out and exercising at four in the morning?” I clarified.
“It’s easier when everyone is still asleep. And cooler,” he added.
“Tell me you run the steps,” I said, shaking my head.
“I run the steps,” he agreed, shrugging.
“My legs were shaking when I tried to lower myself down onto the couch,” I admitted, realizing that doing so drew his attention down my body where the flap of the robe had slipped open, revealing more than a small sliver of thigh. In fact, he was dangerously closed to figuring out my pantyless secret too.
“They adapt,” he assured me, taking a deep breath, making that glorious chest of his expand wide as his gaze moved away.
“I don’t think my thighs work that way,” I told him.
“I’m sure they work just fine,” he told me, voice a little rough, conjuring up images of them working just fine as they wrapped around his hips as he slid inside me.
Oh, crap.
Nope.
That was not a good place for my mind to be heading.
My legs pressed together tightly, trying to ignore the growing desire building between.
“They prefer lounging in bed until ten in the morning,” I told him, voice sounding as tight as my chest did.
“Feel free,” he invited, waving a hand down the hall.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’d rather put something on TV and pretend I understand what is going on.”
It hadn’t escaped my notice that it was lucky that Christopher and Cora spoke English.
“You should be able to find something in English on Netflix,” he offered. “I need to shower.”
With that, he was gone.
Did I watch him walk away, you might be wondering?
Why, yes, yes of course, I did.
I’d always had a thing for men’s backs. The strong shoulders, the slope downward, the back dimples. And, well, Christopher Adamos also happened to have a pretty epic ass too.
“Oh, calm down,” I grumbled to my sex, now throbbing in objection to Christopher’s departure. “I will give you a session with the removable shower wand later,” I added, going onto Netflix, browsing through a mix of Greek and American content until I found something to put on.
“Cora will be up in… this is what you watch?” Christopher asked a short while later, stopping suddenly, one hand still clasping his cufflink into place.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, shrugging.
“Wouldn’t you prefer making a cake yourself?” he asked.
“Do you watch sports?” I asked, getting a bit of a shrug. “Wouldn’t you prefer playing them yourself?” I shot back at him. “I have never been good at baking. This lets me think that I maybe have hope. I mean if that dude can figure out how to make and use fondant, maybe I can too.”
To my surprise, he moved around the couch, taking a seat at the other end. “What is fondant?” he asked, squinting a bit at the people on the screen.
“It’s made from marshmallows. It is what makes cakes look perfectly smooth. Or you can make designs out of it. see?” I said a moment later when he was still sitting there, watching. “It is oddly engaging. Yet relaxing at the same time. The only downfall is it makes you hungry. I once got a craving for a wedding cake at two in the morning.”
