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“Your skin is so smooth. Like silk." The simple statement disconcerted her. She'd never before received a flattering compliment from a man, especially not an attractive, virile, mostly naked one, and as she stumbled for a response, he advanced like a large cat, a graceful, predatory beast like those from the jungles of Africa that she'd seen at an exhibition in London. He was so near that the fist she'd valiantly anchored to her bosom to hold the towel was pressed against his ribs. His skin was warm, and his matting of chest hair tickled the heel of her hand. She tilted away, but the mirror prevented evasion. Though she fought to appear staunch and in control, her dilemma had quickly spiraled beyond her ability to navigate. Anxiously, she licked her bottom lip, which instantly had him studying her mouth as though intent on devouring her. "Sir, you're scaring me." "How?" "I'm not certain why you're here---" "Aren't you?" His words were husky with a dangerous lust that even she, in her sheltered, virginal state, couldn't misconstrue. "---or what you propose..." "You know what I propose. I'll be very gentle if that's how you like it." With a sure finger, he traced down her cheek and across her neck, and his touch was so blistering that she felt as if she'd been burned. She flinched, and he soothed, "You don't need to be afraid.” — Cheryl Holt