I’VE BEEN READING FOR an hour in bed when Trevor comes in. I try not to stare at him as he goes into the closet, comes in, and then walks to the bathroom.

He closes the door and a few minutes later I hear the shower come on.

I time his shower (because that’s what I do). He’s in there for nine and a half minutes. When he comes out a few minutes later, he’s not wearing a shirt.

I definitely notice this detail.

His chest... well, it’s nothing to sneer at. He definitely uses that exercise equipment in his spare room because his abs and arms have some very fine definition. He’s got hair on his chest—nothing too thick or gross, but there’s no man-scaping going on in his grooming routine. And he’s got more hair—this sexy dark trail—starting low on his belly and leading down beneath the waistband of the dark blue pajama pants.

All this observation of his body takes the length of time of his walking around the bed to his side. He catches me staring. How could he not? I haven’t been particularly subtle.

He gives me his smug look as he gets into bed. “I usually sleep in my underwear, you know. I’m wearing pants out of courtesy to you. But if it gets too hot in the room, these things are coming off.”

I try not to gulp. “I don’t care if you sleep in your underwear.” I’m not being entirely truthful. I’ll be much more comfortable if he keeps the pants on.

He’s arranging two pillows on top of each other. The covers are down around his belly button, leaving far too much masculine chest exposed to my view.

Is it entirely necessary for every part of the man’s body to be so appealing? The universe seems intent on torturing me with Trevor’s unrelenting sexiness.

I stare down at my e-reader, trying to focus on the words on the screen rather than Trevor’s body in bed beside me. There’s at least a foot between us, but he’s way too close and way too shirtless.

“Is it a good book?” he asks.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. It’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“It’s good enough. There’s a lot of it I have to skim.”

“What parts do you skim?”

I look up, and he’s giving me only a very faint lift of that eyebrow, proof that he’s mostly in earnest. The higher the eyebrow goes, the more ironic his attitude. “There are all these pages of introspection and background and every detail the author researched about the main character’s job. I don’t need to waste my time with all that wordage. Just give me the good stuff.”

He gave a brief, soft chuckle. “What’s the good stuff to you?”

“Dialogue and action. I don’t like to be bogged down with all that non-essential stuff.”

“That sounds about right for you. Dialogue and action. No wasting your time with non-essentials.”

I check his face, but he doesn’t appear to be mocking me. He does look like he’s laughing at me, but not in a mean way. “I would have thought you’d approve of that approach.”

“I do. Dialogue is one of my favorite things. And speaking of action...”

I frown. Call me clueless or naïve, but I honestly have no idea what he’s about to say.

No idea at all.

What he says is, “You want to have sex?”

Just like that. As bland as can be. He asks me if I want to have sex.

I gape at him, trying to wrap my mind around what just came out of his mouth.

I can’t get my vocal cords to work.

Did I mention he just asked me if I want to have sex?

“What?” he says, cocking his head slightly.

“Did you just ask me if I want to have sex?”

“I think you heard me, since your mouth is hanging open.”

“Are you insane?”

“Not last I checked.”

“You just asked me if I want to have sex!”

“I think we covered that point. Didn’t we agree that, if I want to have sex with someone, I tell you.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think it would be me.”

“Why not?”

Why not?

Why not?

“You really want to have sex with me?” My voice isn’t as controlled as I’d like it to be, but I’m having another hot flash I definitely don’t want him to see.

He gives a half shrug. “We’re married. We’re in bed together. We might as well have a little fun.” His tone is as light and cool as it always is—with absolutely no sign that he’s invested in the outcome of this discussion.

Maybe he really thinks about sex as a minor, recreational activity that can be performed in any context without affecting anything else in his world.

But that’s not how sex has ever worked for me, and I’m still having trouble articulating my response.

And he’s lounging there against his pillows, waiting for me to answer.

“I’m not having sex with you, Trevor,” I finally manage to say. “I don’t even really like you.”

I’m not trying to be mean. He knows perfectly well how I feel about him. He feels the same way about me. I’m trying to explain that I have to at least like someone to have sex with them.

“What has that got to do with it?” He turns slightly toward me. “You’d enjoy it.”

“I would not.”

“Yes, you would.” His eyes suddenly take on a smoldering heat that makes my breath hitch, that makes every cell of my body scream about how much it wants Trevor to touch it. “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.”

“You—you—ugh! You have no idea what I’ve thought about. I can’t believe how appallingly arrogant you are. I’m telling you straight out that I don’t want to have sex with you.”

“All right. You can change your mind whenever you want.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“We’ll see.” When he sees my face at this, he raises up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t bite my head off. It was just a suggestion. No need to be so prickly.”

“Prickly? You’re actually calling me prickly?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No! I’m behaving the way any woman with a brain would behave when faced with a man as smug and obnoxious as you are. It doesn’t mean I’m prickly. I’m just not going to melt into a puddle of goo because you give me a sexy look. Believe it or not, every woman in the world isn’t waiting with bated breath for you to deign to take them to bed.”

His eyes aren’t sexy anymore. They’re laughing, although his mouth is perfectly composed. It’s an irresistible expression, and I have the worst time not smiling back.

I manage to maintain a disapproving frown. “I’m not prickly.”

“Fine. For the peace of our marital bed, I’ll agree that you’re not prickly.”

“And even if I was prickly, you deserve to get stuck a few times.”

He laughs. Not his low-key chuckle, which is all the laughter I’ve ever heard from him in the past. He laughs for real.

Listening to it, I’m washed with the strangest flood of feeling. Pleasure. Satisfaction. Amusement. Pride.

I really can’t believe I made Trevor Bentley laugh that way.

“Okay,” he says at last. “No sex. At least not tonight. Do you mind if I turn on the TV?”

“That’s fine. The TV doesn’t bother me at all.”

So I read my book, and he flips between the news and sports. When I put down my book, he clicks off the television.

Then it’s dark in the room, and I can hear him breathing. I can feel every adjustment of his body.

At one point in the dark, I mutter, “I can’t believe you asked if I want to have sex with you.”

He just laughs again.

***

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