Delaney

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This stunt.

This crazy, ridiculous, over-the-top stunt.

This goddamn parade of flesh.

I just . . . can’t even.

Can’t even stand how ballsy he is.

Can’t even comprehend what the hell I’m supposed to think, feel, or do.

He waltzed out naked in front of my employees and customers.

And now he’s nude here with me.

I stand in the massage room, my arms crossed over my chest as I lock my gaze with Tyler’s.

Let me state this for the record—I didn’t drag him back in this room because of that body. I’m not that shallow. But it's impossible not to notice his finer features.

His shoulders are deliciously broad, his arms are muscular, and his chest operates like a magnet for my hands. I cross my arms tighter to resist the force of attraction.

Don’t even get me started on those magazine-spread abs. A six-pack is my shrine. I want to touch it, lick it, and rub my head against it like a cat rolling in catnip. Meow, indeed.

I dig in my heels. Push my toes against the soles of my shoes, like I’m holding firm with my feet alone.

And let’s not forget his legs. His thighs are toned and look powerful. His calves are strong. He even has seductive knees, and hell if I know how that’s possible. Knees aren’t so sexy, but connecting those thighs to those calves, they are a mild aphrodisiac. My mouth waters as I take him in, and sadly I can’t even see his ass.

That’s what is so freaking unfair. I meant it when I said I can’t think straight. How could I? He’s naked. N-A-K-E-D. In front of me. Asking for a second chance.

This is the definition of “rock and a hard place.”

Because it’s him.

Tyler Nichols is more than the opening act, the closing act, and the main attraction of my dirty dreams. He’s the one who got away. He’s the guy I loved more than sprinkles. He’s the man who made me feel beautiful, adored, and cherished.

Speaking of all his parts . . .

Even though my eyes are locked with his, I got more than a peek of his cock. The man has a magnificent dick. Long, thick, proud, with just the perfect left hook to it.

It looks great soft. It looks glorious when it’s unapologetically hard.

But none of this would matter without the face. His eyes are like chocolate, his cheekbones could be carved by sculptors, and his lips are so damn kissable. His brown hair is thick, soft, and a little bit in need of a cut. The slightly unkempt style makes me want to drag my fingers through it.

And yes, my ode to his body might sound like I’m obsessed with the surface. But what I can’t get out of my head is that he pulled this off. He wanted to apologize properly so much that he stripped to his full birthday suit here at my spa, giving a preview of most of his parts to my staff and customers in the hallway.

And I honestly don’t know whether to slap him or grind my body against him.

I can’t be completely mad because it’s just so over the top, and that’s what I used to love about him.

Even so, the pissed-off part jostles its way to the front of the line, pointing out the insanity of him strutting around as naked as the statue of David. I narrow my eyes, uncross my arms, and push my hands to his chest. “Are you crazy?”

He nods and wiggles his eyebrows. “I might be.”

“You think after eight years, you can just wander in here, do a little Magic Mike mea culpa, and that’s it? That’s all it takes to get me back?”

“I’m not asking you for a shot. I’m asking you to have a drink.”

I push harder at his chest, so his butt hits the edge of the massage table. “I know that, Tyler Nichols. I’m clear on what you’re asking. And what is really driving me crazy now is one thing.”

“Is it the sheer amount of naked skin in front of you?” he asks gesturing to his body. “I don’t like robes, sweetheart. You know that.”

An image of him in college, walking down the dorm hall covered by nothing but a white towel cinched around his tight waist flashes before my eyes. I’d stayed in his room the night before, and he joined me in the shower the next morning. He washed my hair, lathered it up, and then gave me one hell of an amazing scalp massage. I believe I purred the whole time. Then, after he rinsed the shampoo from my hair, his hands mapped a winding path down my body, over my breasts, across my belly, and between my legs. As the water beat down, he slipped his fingers across me, then inside, then there, right there, as he stoked the fire in me, making me pant and moan and bite his shoulder when I came. After the shower, I scurried down the hall ahead of him. When I reached the door to his room, I glanced behind me and all I could think was how unbearably hot he was with that towel hanging low on his hips, his skin glistening post-shower.

He walked with swagger.

With confidence.

With ridiculous sexiness. And he was mine. Every part of him—that body, that face, his bold, daring mouth—and his mind, too. When he reached his room, I wiggled my eyebrows. “I’m so glad you don’t wear a robe.”

“Yeah, why is that?”

“So I can ogle you as you strut down the hall in nothing but that towel.” I pressed my teeth into my lips, savoring the sight of him. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are?”

He shook his head, cupped my cheek, and brought his nose to mine. “No. Why don’t you show me?”

It’s a wonder we ever made it to class with the way we couldn’t stop touching each other.

But yet, we somehow juggled it all.

I’m not sure if it’s the past or the present, the memory of that morning shower or the moment right now with him in the nude. I don’t know which one compels me more, or if both drive me. But my hand is on his chest, and my heart is in my throat, and my body crackles.

I push hard on his pec. He stays rooted to his spot. I push again, though there’s nowhere for him to go. He stands stock-still. Then I grab his nipple and I pinch.

He lets out a small yelp.

“I seriously can’t believe you.” I do it again.

He winces, but maintains his ground. “Believe me.”

“What are you thinking, coming to my business naked? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m completely sane,” he says, and I twist his nipple once more for good measure.

He grabs my hand, covering it with his bigger one, tugging me even closer. I gasp. The feel of his hand on mine sends a charge through me. I’m not just touching him now. We’re touching each other, and all at once, the drive to hurt him melts away. Fact is, I never wanted to hurt him. I only wanted to have him. And now that I’ve sorted out my shock, my annoyance, my frustration, my I-can’t-believe-you-had-the-nerve-ness, I’m simply done with it.

With his hand on mine, I give in.

“You’re crazy,” I say, but it’s hardly a protest as I spread my hand wider, no longer pushing him away. Instead, I dig in. I press. And then I drag my fingers down over the hard wall of his pecs.

He feels like coming home.

I wanted to shut him out to protect myself. It’s a natural human response. We are programmed to fight for survival, and he represented pain, a threat to my well-being, the spiked bat that would hurt me.

But I’ve been trained to look at both sides of a situation. To handle either aspect of a debate. To argue the pros or the cons. Those skills rise up in me once more as I consider the other side of his stunt. Yes, he might have embarrassed me. But on the other hand, he’s the one who let down his guard and showed me, in his own very Tyler way, how vulnerable he could be.

Baring all took away the threat of pain. I can no longer see him as a Molotov cocktail for my heart when he’s willing to chase me down the hall without even his skivvies on.

I don’t keep the light on red. I turn it to yellow and proceed with caution.

My fingers travel to his abs, and I trace the top row of his six-pack. My breath hitches. My skin flares with heat.

I have to fight the urge to bend and run my tongue over the grooves. Instead, my fingers do the walking. Down the middle, over the muscles, and to his waist. I don’t look in his eyes. I can’t. I won’t venture further south, either, even though I’m keenly aware of his hard cock, thick and pulsing mere inches from me. A weapon of mass pleasure.

I want to kiss him so badly. Want to touch him everywhere. I want to smash into him and reconnect with this frustrating, brilliant, vexing man I once loved—falling in love with him was like floating in the water under a clear sunlit sky. He warmed me all over.

But there are things to say. “It’s not you being naked that drives me crazy,” I say in a whisper.

He tucks his finger under my chin and lifts my face. “Tell me what drives you crazy,” he says. His voice is an invitation, like my answer matters. Like I matter. And although I felt like I didn’t mean a thing to him when he cut me from his life, I can tell I mean something to him now.

As the pitter-patter of gently falling rain sounds on the speakers and the room nearly hums with this electric energy, I part my lips. “What drives me nuts is that I might seem like a hard-ass.”

He recoils and shoots me a stare like I’m crazy. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Here you are, naked, and gorgeous, and contrite, and asking for one date, and if I say no, I’m the total hard-ass.”

“To who?”

“To anyone.” I point my thumb at the door. “To everyone who said to give you a chance.”

“They’re not here right now. It’s you and me.”

“But I feel like I can hear people saying, ‘Give him a chance. It’s one drink. He’s naked in front of you. Just go out with him.’”

The corner of his smile lifts. “They probably are saying that. But what do you say? Do you say ‘you should give him a chance’?”

A tiny grin tugs on my lips, too. “Maybe . . .” I tease as I drag my nails down his chest once more, and this time I’m rewarded with a groan. A low, dirty groan that sends a wild thrill through me. He inches closer, his thick hard-on pressing against my yoga pants. I fight back every carnal instinct telling me to slide my body against his. To wrap my arms around his neck. To crush my mouth to his.

I don’t know if he’s changed.

But more than that, I don’t know if I have.

All I know is this: he’s more than earned a drink, and that’s not simply because he’s aroused me like no one ever has. “But right now I say you’re getting the hardest deep tissue massage of your life, and you better leave me a great tip,” I say playfully. Then I swat his ass.

Oh, my.

That’s one firm cheek if I ever felt one.

And I want to get a full-on view. Not to mention a hands-on one, too.

I pat the massage table. “Hop on, Mr. Pollock.”

He smiles, doing as told. And there he is, facedown, ass-up on my massage table. The verdict is in. He is the proud owner of a perfect, round bubble-butt—hard, sculpted, and totally squeezable.

I could objectify him all day long.

But I’ve done enough of that. For the next fifty minutes, I focus on my job. Covering him up to the top of his cheeks, I run a hand down his back. A sexy growl rewards me as he shifts his body, adjusting to being facedown on the table.

I step away, reaching for the bottle of vanilla massage oil on the counter and drizzling some into my palm. I press my hands on his shoulders, and I begin there. For nearly an hour, I dig into his muscles. I unknot the tension I find in his right shoulder, above his hip, and along his spine. He sighs, he murmurs, he even drifts off to sleep at one point. I can tell from his even breathing. With him in dreamland under my hands, the rainfall our aural companion, I let myself relax, too, and reflect on the past week.

I didn’t expect to bump into him in the park, obviously.

I didn’t think he’d track me down online, determined to set the record straight.

And I certainly didn’t anticipate he’d send me a salad, deliver a potted plant of lilacs, and chat with me on the phone.

But above all, this is the unexpected. And I find I like it.

More than I thought I would when he strutted into the hall, his hand covering his package.

I might have some explaining to do to my employees. But I don’t have anything to explain to myself. I want to know what happens next.

When I finish and he rouses from his slumber, his voice is gravelly and morning-husky. “I think I dozed off.”

“You did, sleeping beauty.”

He stretches and flips over, enjoying a deep inhale. “Wow. You’re fucking amazing, Delaney. I feel like a brand new man.”

The metaphor is not lost on me, but only time will tell if that’s true.

“That’s my goal.” There’s something about having had my hands on him in this capacity that feels even better. Not a sexual touch, but a healing one, where I work the kinks from muscles, and he lets me be the caretaker for his body.

I lift my chin and ask him a question. “Mr. Pollock. Tell me something.”

“Anything.”

“What time do you want to meet for that drink?”

His eyes sparkle, and he says eight tonight.

I shake my head. “I’m busy. Tomorrow?”

“Done.” He sits up, and I can’t help but wonder if we’ll kiss or touch or anything. If he’ll drop his lips to my forehead. The tingles racing down my spine make me want to sing “Kiss the Girl.” But the past, the present, and the unknown future tell me that now’s not the time.

“I have another appointment,” I say. “Be sure to drink a lot of water. We released a lot of toxins from your body, and you want to flush them out. Have some water, a piece of fruit, and sleep well tonight.”

He nods, and I point to his clothes. “I’ll leave you now so you can get dressed.” I turn toward the door, then halt, and set my hand on his shoulder. “And Tyler?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for being my ten a.m.”

“Thank you for putting your hands all over me.”

As I leave, softly closing the door behind me and giving him his privacy, I find myself unexpectedly delighted.

Especially since the butterflies in my belly are flying high.