Run a blue disposable razor slowly up the length of each one until all the hair is sliced off. Smooth a bar of Dove soap over my breasts and between the apex of my thighs. Concentrate on my task, scrubbing myself clean. The thought sends my stomach surging into a dramatic roll, nerves causing me to snap the bottle shut. Mmm, I get to curl up with him later and do whatever I want to him. Lifting his red bottle of liquid body gel from the shelf, I snap the top open, inhaling the masculine scent. Daydream about it while the mirrors in his bathroom fog from shower steam and I scrub myself clean under the spray of Sterling Wade’s shower. Run my palms down his smooth shoulder blades slowly. I want to plow my hands through his neatly shorn mop. Or hook the tip of one finger inside his collar and trail it along his warm skin. The tight fit of his dark shirt and the promise that its fabric would be velvety soft beneath my fingers if I had the nerve to caress it. The freshly trimmed hair at Rowdy’s nape. I love everything about that spot on his body, the straining muscles of his trapezius and deltoids. To me, it’s the sexist part of a man-the delicious slope at the back of their neck where their shoulders meet.
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