Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

And not any footsteps, either. No. These were quick, hard, determined footsteps. Footsteps that I knew very well.

My hands dropped the chemise, and it fell back down, clinging to my wet skin.

No. No. No, no, nonononono no!

Clutching my skimpy garment to my chest, I peeked around the rock, praying that I was wrong. Praying that I was right, too. The first prayer was denied. The second was answered.

There, right in front of me under the glittering shower of the waterfall, stood Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his back towards me, his shirt half unbuttoned. As I watched, he swiftly grasped the hem of the shirt and pulled it over his head, revealing all that lay beneath.

Oh dear God…

How did Father Marcos put it again?

Our Father, which art in heaven,

Lead us not into temptation.

Well - it was a bit too late for that now. Mouth dry and skin wet, I watched as droplets of water ran over hard, impenetrable muscles.

Sightseeing

It wasn’t like I had never seen a half-naked man before. All right, so most of the ones I’d seen had been made of marble and placed on pedestals in art museums, but so what? I knew pretty much what the male chest looked like. From some of the racier pieces I even had a pretty good idea of what was going on below the waistline.

Still…

None of that could have prepared me for this.

All those other sculptures had been made out of simple, soft marble. This one was made out of granite from the very centre of the earth. All those other sculptures only depicted heroes, kings, or paltry gods. This one depicted Rikkard Ambrose, in the flesh. And do you know what the best thing was?

Yep. It was alive.

The granite statue shifted, the perfect muscles in its back flexing with every movement. It - he - cupped his hands together and gathered up some of the clear, cool water of the pool. In a move so fast my eyes could hardly track it, his hands came up and splashed the water into his face. Droplets ran down his neck, over his broad, strong shoulders and down over his back. They twinkled on his skin like diamonds, calling me forward, begging to be touched.

I should go. I should definitely go. I should not be watching this.

Are you nuts? Of course you should! This is better than a week’s worth of solid chocolate! Who knew? Men are useful for something after all.

For watching them naked? No! No, no, no! That was not feministic!

Why not? They’ve been using and objectifying us poor women for a few thousand years. It’s time we got a bit of our own back, don’t you think?

No! I did most certainly not think that!

Are you sure?

Yes! Yes, absolutely sure! I should leave now. I should leave right away.

Then why aren’t your feet moving?

Damn inner voice and her logical arguments! Why couldn’t she just shut up and go away for once?

Because I’m too busy watching those delicious muscles flex. Yummy!

Oh, bloody hell! I should leave! I really should! It was just…the sight of Mr Ambrose standing there, water droplets running down his broad, bared back, the soaked cloth of his trousers clinging tightly to body parts I didn’t even dare name, for fear of fainting - it was something you could not turn away from. Not if you were female and under the age of ninety-nine.

But I couldn’t just stay here watching, could I? If I wasn’t going to go, I should at least make my presence known, right? Standing here behind the rock was just so…

…the best bloody experience of your life?