Myra
The steam from the bathroom was still curling into the bedroom as I sat on the edge of the bed, vigorously toweling off my hair. The rain was still hammering the roof, but inside, the air was warm and smelled of Tony’s cedar-scented soap.
The door creaked open, and Tony stepped out, a single towel hitched low on his hips. He was still damp, droplets of water clinging to the dark hair on his chest and tracing the deep, corded lines of his stomach. I stopped rubbing my hair, the towel draped over my shoulders, and just... looked.
I’d spent so long looking at him in the half-light of the early morning or the shadows of the bakery, but with the bedside lamp humming, the reality of him was a lot to take in. He was built like a man who moved heavy things for a living—not for show, but fo
