Without slipping from my gaze, he began to lick his lips seductively. His breathing was laboured and rough, his nostrils flared and shivers visibly racked his body. He quickly shucked off his boots, and I watched, captivated, as his hands grasped the hem of his shirt and brought it up and over his head. He was totally silent, and it was the sexist thing I’d seen in my life.

For an unknown reason, I could feel the urge to shout ‘Whoomp, there it is!’ bubbling up inside me, but thankfully, I assessed that it may have killed the mood somewhat if I did.

I was officially now in the most erotically-charged moment of my life. It’s funny, I used to think those steamy sex scenes in my mother’s Mills and Boon novels she hid under the stairs were full of shit, but phrases such as ‘throbbing member’ , ‘ramming home hard’ and ‘thick pulsating length’ kind of sprang to my mind when faced with this fine specimen of a man. Hell, screw it, this could be a one-shot kind of deal, so I resolved to throw caution to the wind and go with the wanton wench vibe that this situation called for!

I re-focused and saw that the T-shirt was now off. Tudor’s bronzed, bulging chest and sculpted stomach were almost fully covered in dark tattoos that wrapped around the full length of his left arm, climbing up onto his huge corded traps and his thick, muscular neck.

Jesus, he was perfect.

I shook my head once to gather my composure, biting my lip and clenching the bed sheets in my fists. He pulled a knowing Tudor-smirk, and I whimpered loudly, needing him to hurry.

He reached for his belt and began undoing the buckle slowly, eventually letting the leather strap fall to the floor with a thud. His fingers dusted over the top button of his jeans, snapping it open and dragging down the zip, causing the waistline to drop low on his hips, showcasing the defined V-line of his lower torso and exposing the thin patch of hair leading south of the waistband of his jeans.

"Tash, you need stop looking at me that way or I'm gonna lose it. I'm barely holding it together as it is," he announced through gritted teeth.

I pinched myself on the arm to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. As I was twisting the skin on my upper arm, I peeked up to see Tudor frozen in place with a confused look on his face. I rubbed at the red mark, trying to soothe the sting.

“Ms. Munro, are you into the kinky stuff?”

“What? No! I was just making sure all of this was real.”

He smiled tenderly. “And what’s the verdict?”

“Yep, we’re definitely here. Now, carry on, man-slave, and strip!”

He raised his hands high to rub over his face and head, causing his biceps to flex with the movement. “Are you ever serious? I’m pulling out all my best moves here.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “I’m as serious as a heart attack, now lose the damn pants, and seize and ravish this fair and innocent maiden!”

"Tash…" he warned, stilling my breath and smart-ass remarks as he lowered his hands to the waistband of his jeans.

I gasped loudly and practically swallowed my tongue. No underwear - hello, Mr. Commando!

I couldn’t look away, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being completely inexperienced and way out of my depth at what I was facing.

At all I was facing.

He raised an eyebrow and huffed in amusement. “What, no sassy retorts now, Ms. Munro?” as his extra-long battering ram practically hit the floor to complement his jibe.

I swallowed audibly and shook my head.

Holy mother of sphincters! I need a vodka. That or a bucket load of Vaseline! Yikes!

Tudor lifted his deliciously large legs one at a time, losing his jeans completely, and looking all perfect, excited and very naked. His inkings continued to his lower hip, his freakishly bulky thighs, the defined calf on his left-hand side, and were mirrored on his back – my God, his entire left side, front and back, was covered in the most knicker-tingling tattoo I had ever seen.

Ding! Put a fork in me, I’m done. Is it possible to orgasm without any touching?!

"Now you," he commanded, tipping his chin, no longer playing games.

In a moment of sheer panic, I lost all confidence. What the hell did someone who looked like him and who was as… equipped as him, want with me – a dumpy little Geordie? He was the definition of hot male ruggedness and I was anything but – all lumps, bumps and imperfections.

He read my expression. "What's wrong?" he questioned, worry etched on his brow.

I lifted my hands to my face to cover and hide, and pulled my knees up to my stomach, making myself small. I rubbed my eyes, trying to not be freaked out by this highly daunting situation.