Having someone towel her off like he was buffing the final sheen into a marble statue left her skin tingling and alive. She wanted to drag him straight into the bedroom.
Instead, leaving their clothes on the floor, he led her back out onto the porch. She protested at the door, but he dragged her stumbling across the threshold and out into the open air. The late afternoon sunlight slanted warmly onto porch. The to-go containers still sat on the small table.
“I need clothes,” she once again tried to go inside, but he closed the front door.
“You don’t get to cover one inch of that glorious skin. It’s just begging to be admired.”
He conducted her to her chair as if he were a maître d’hôtel, and she wasn’t buck naked and bruised. Of course your average maître d’ probably didn’t serve with m
