Page 8 of Naughty All the Way

He laughs. “Doing…whatever I just did? Yes. And it’s my last,” he says. Seeming to relax a bit, he says, “So, why are you up here? Not into half-naked guys prancing about?”

“Something like that,” I say.

“Too bad,” he says. Than his voice deepens. “From what I can see, I might have been a lot more inspired if you’d been down there.”

My lips tilt up. “Well done.”

He dips his head. “Thank you.”

“Speaking of which.” I lean over and turn on the bedside lamp, which is so dim it’s barely a step up from the darkness we’d been in. But when I turn back, my mouth goes dry.

Holy mother of all things good and right in the world. This man is…wow. I swallow, completely incapable of staring. I’m betting he’s in his mid-twenties at most, bless him. His bare chest is incredibly well-defined, naturally tanned with the lightest dusting of dark hair. His eyes are a maple brown, soft and curious, deep-set into a face that looks like it’s been chiseled from marble. His lips are full and lush, and as they break into a smile, I see not one, but two dimples. His hair is thick and dark, and my hands itch to run through it.

Then there’s the tidy fact of the Santa hat and velvet bowtie he’s wearing.

Merry. Fucking. Christmas. To me.

I finally look back at his eyes, and they’re warm with a little bit of heat in them.

“Like what you see?” he asks, the smile still holding.

I try to remember the last time I was this close to someone this unclothed. Right: more than a year.

It’s not that I’m picky, it’s…okay, it’s that I’m picky. I’ve earned that right. Trust me. But this beautiful man just asked me a question.

“I do,” I say.

“So do I,” he says.

We stare at each other for a moment, the air thickening with tension, and I’m certain my eyes are mirror of his: irises blown, lust raging.

Do I want this?

Yes. Yes, I do.

“Tell me your name,” I say softly.

“Gabriel.”

“Like the angel.”

He grins naughtily. “There are a lot of things you could say about me, but I don’t think ‘angel’ is one of them.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“What’s yours?”

“Kayla.”

“Beautiful,” he says, his voice low.

I realize I’ve not actually seen what he’s wearing—or not wearing, as the case may be—on his lower half. Without overthinking it, I straighten and peer over the fluffy white comforter to have a look. And with the biggest smile on my face, I blurt, “Ohhellyeah.”

Because this specimen is sporting red velvet short shorts that fit him like boxer briefs, and I am here for it.

He chuckles. “Are you always this forward?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is now when I point out thatyouare the one who came intomyroom, wearing a whole lot of nothing?”

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