The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men 7)

No way in hell could I handle that.

My face itched like crazy inside my mask, but I refrained from scratching or moving a muscle as quiet footsteps—just one pair, whew—shuffled across the floor. Mattress springs shifted behind me as Asher sat on his bed.

My body instantly responded, heating uncontrollably inside my already warm disguise. But then the reek of feminine perfume hit me and I went cold. He’d taken that other girl home then. The blonde.

I really hated that blonde.

Asher let out a long, tired sigh, and I could picture him rubbing his weary face, maybe running his talented fingers through his silky dark hair. Hair I’d had my fingers in and gotten to touch and play with, hair that I wanted to experience again.

He stood. The soft swish of clothing told me he was undressing.

Oh, man. My internal thermometer soared, spiking off the charts with a horny heat.

I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t look. I totally shouldn’t look.

I really was being a good girl and not looking, but then he walked

into the bathroom, and in order to get there, he had to pass my bed and right where I was staring wide-eyed into the darkened room...well, mostly darkened until he turned on the bathroom light and gifted me with a view of his perfectly formed bare ass.

Sweet baby Jesus.

His toned, tanned cheeks were...they were...yeah.

Sweet baby Jesus.

All too soon, he closed the bathroom door, disappearing inside and shrouding me back into the darkness of the hotel room. The shower kicked on and my imagination ran wild, thinking of all the places he had to be touching his wet, naked body right now, running my soap over warm, sculpted skin and slicking a sudsy trail down his taut stomach to between his legs, where he was probably cupping his testicles and palming them clean.

Damn. A shower had never seemed so freaking dirty before.

I wanted to be under that steamy spray with him so bad.

My body ached and my nipples burned with the need to be touched. Closing my eyes, I breathed through my mask’s nose holes, each shallow breath highlighting my arousal as my hand wandered down inside the waistband of my flannel pants and into my panties.

God, how I loved sexy silk panties. They were perfect for self-pleasure, for sliding them against your clit to create friction for a maximum experience.

But tonight, it didn’t matter what I was wearing down there. I could’ve gotten off to the mere sound of Asher Hart singing George Ezra’s “Budapest” in the shower.

I was inches from fondling myself, my hips already straining to lift off the bed, when the water shut off in the bathroom.

Damn it.

Why couldn’t he have dawdled a little longer?

I yanked my hand free of my clothes and squeezed my legs together just as the bathroom door opened. Automatically, my eyes flew open.

Asher stepped out, dripping wet, with a towel slung around his waist. I gaped at the beauty that was his bare chest as he skidded to a surprised halt.

“Shit,” he said, wincing. “Sorry, Rem. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay,” I slurred, trying to act half awake, when honestly I was freaking wide awake. With a yawn, I stretched and rolled to face away from him.

But that actually solved nothing. He strolled to his side of the room, which I was now turned toward.

And then he dropped his towel.

On purpose.

“You been asleep long?” he asked in a conversational manner as if nothing earth-shattering at all was happening. Glancing my way as he dug a pair of his own flannel pants from his duffle bag, he lifted his eyebrows curiously.