“He nodded with his head lost under the towel as he rubbed his hair. The vigorous motion showcased some wonderfully cut triceps, not to mention his abs. And, oh dear, was his white towel coming undone at his left hip?
Leaning forward from my seat on the edge of his bed, I wished the tiny corner of the towel would unfurl.
I couldn’t help it. I knew what I was: a perverted voyeur, a floozy with a penchant for bad boys.
And as he bent over, rifling through his dresser’s drawers—picking out a white ribbed tank and blue jeans—I couldn’t help how my tongue wet my lips or how my hands skimmed the top of his mattress, wishing I was molesting his deltoids, his spinal column, his rump, anything!
If he did this every morning, I’d be getting slapped with a restraining order soon.
As he turned to face me, the towel slid another inch.“