Behind her, Cian MacKeltar was taking a shower, beyond the closed bathroom door.
She’d closed the door.
She’d also closed her eyes when he’d dropped his kilt right in front of her. Which wasn’t to say that she was a prude and hadn’t stared at him through the glass of the shower enclosure when she’d firmly shut the door a few moments later. She had.
The moment they’d entered the hotel room, his gaze had gone instantly to the double king beds. So had hers, and there’d been one of those intensely tense moments where people either jumped on each other or got as far away from each other as they could.
She’d done a little crab-scuttle sideways, nearly sidling right back out into the hall. He’d smiled faintly, mockingly, at her, then stepped past her and thoroughly scanned the entire room before positioning the mirror against the far wall, facing the entry door. She’d not missed that it also faced the beds, but was refusing to ponder it overlong.
For a moment she’d thought he was going to kiss her again, but, as he’d walked back toward her, his gaze had swept past her to the bathroom.
Christ, he’d exclaimed, ’tis a modern garderobe! I couldn’t see beyond the door to the one in Lucan’s study, though I’ve seen pictures. . . . He’d trailed off wonderingly.
Is that where he kept you . . . er, the mirror hung? In his study? How strange his existence must have been inside a mirror! She couldn’t begin to fathom it.
Aye. Though I’ve seen most modern inventions in books and the like in his study, I’ve not had the opportunity to examine the real things.
She’d been about to give him a quick demonstration—anything to get away from those beds—but he’d plunged right into things, just as he had in the car, taking command, twisting handles and turning knobs, squirting little bottles of shampoo and conditioner until the room had been a steam sauna, scented of perfumed toiletries.
Does this hostelry contain a kitchen and serving wenches, lass? he’d paused long enough in his explorations to ask.
She’d nodded.
Command us a feast, woman. I’m famished. Meat. Much meat. And wine.
When he’d unfastened his wrist cuffs, she should have gotten the hint.
Without further ado, he’d dropped his kilt. Had stood there, utterly unself-conscious, wearing nothing but a leather sheath strapped to one heavily muscled thigh, casing a heavily jewel-encrusted knife. Doffing that, too, he’d placed it high on the shower stall’s edge and stepped beneath the spray.
Pulse suddenly jumping in her throat, she’d turned sharply away and squeezed her eyes shut.
She could still taste him on her lips. The kiss he’d given her in the lobby had stunned her.
And scorched her right down to her toes. He’d not pushed for tongue, or tried to grab a breast the instant he’d thought he’d gotten her distracted with a kiss. No, he’d kissed her lazily, without touching her anywhere else at all, as if he had all the time in the world, brushing his firm, full, sexy lips back and forth over hers, gently sucking her lower lip.
She’d actually melted into the egotistical Neanderthal, had felt her lips parting.
Logic, reason, and awareness of current events had vanished from her mind as abruptly and completely as if someone had just vacuumed her brain out through her ear.
It was his gentleness that had gotten her, she’d decided on the way up in the elevator. It had surprised her, that was all. It was just that she’d not expected such a soft touch from such a hard-bodied, aggressive man. She’d not been prepared for it, any more than she had been for him to get butt-naked in front of her.
And, Crimeny, what a butt . . .
When she’d opened her eyes and turned back, she’d stared though the steamy glass at him—all six and a half magnificent naked feet of him.
Powerful muscles shaped his long legs and massive thighs, his ass was tight, perfectly formed, and packed with more sweet muscle. She loved a good butt on a man! Too many guys had none at all. Both legs and butt were dusted with fine, silky dark hair; he wasn’t one of those lady-killer bodybuilders or models that shaved—he was a man’s man, and proud of it. More dark hair dusted his forearms and beneath his arms.
He’d lathered himself up and begun scrubbing beneath the steamy spray. As his powerful hands moved over his body, prime, sleek muscle rippled beneath his slick, golden skin.
She’d been so engrossed, watching him wash himself, that when he’d squirted conditioner in his hand and closed a fist around himself, she’d continued dazedly watching. Not until he’d begun to rhythmically slip his hand up and down had she realized what she was watching him do.