‘Scrub my back and you’ll have my full attention,’ he assured her, kicking off his boots in the tiny lobby, peeling off his T-shirt and letting it lie where it fell.
On the outside, the cottage fitted with the rest of the street. Inside, it was bare polished wood floors, white walls, spare steel lamp fittings and old rubbed leather chairs.
He slipped the buckle of his belt, let his jeans fall, stepped out of them and, naked, walked up the open staircase that led to a sleeping loft, not stopping until he reached a granite and steel wet room.
‘If you’re going to scrub my back you’d better lose the clothes or they’ll get soaked,’ he warned as he flipped the tap. His eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘Or you could leave them on. Either way works for me.’
‘Behave yourself.’ She hadn’t come dressed down. She’d wanted to make an impact, wanted him to notice her and even before she reached for the hem of the clinging cross-over top she was wearing she could see that she had. ‘I have to go home on the Tube.’
She unhooked the swirl of printed chiffon that stopped six inches above her knee, kicked it away and stepped out of her shoes.
‘Stop right there,’ he said when she was down to the champagne lace bra and panties that she’d bought with birthday money and even in the sale had cost twice anything else she wore next to her skin. ‘I really want to see those wet.’
‘When you can do more than kiss my hand,’ she said, but took her time over removing them since he appeared to like them so much. ‘Turn round.’
His eyes were focused on her breasts. ‘Do I have to?’
Oh, boy. That was a tough one. His thick dark curls, the streaks of clay on his cheeks, his chest, water sluicing over his skin gave him the elemental look of some tribal chieftain who’d battled the elements and won through.
Every primitive instinct was urging her to take a step forward, press her body against his and go for it but the dark hollows in his temples, beneath his eyes warned her that it was the last thing he needed.
She picked a gel off the shelf, made a circular gesture with her finger and after a moment he turned, placed his hands flat against the granite, bracing himself, or more likely propping himself up.
His finely muscled back, narrow waist, taut buttocks were, if anything, even more distracting.
Get a grip, Tash. You can do this...
She applied the gel to his hair, stretching up on her toes to ease out the dried-in clay with her fingers, leaning into him to massage his scalp—her body, breasts sliding against him as the soap cascaded down his back.
He groaned as she repeated the process. ‘Dear God, woman, what are you doing?’
‘Torturing myself,’ she said as she applied gel to a sponge and began working it into his shoulders.
‘That makes two of us. If you have something important to tell me you’d better get on with it, while I can still think.’
‘I’ve organised a cleaning party for the house. We’ll be staying there from Saturday for the entire week.’
‘Staying?’ He half turned to look at her.
‘Relax. It’s just my family.’ She worked the soap down his back, into the hollow above those gorgeous tight buttocks.