She stood in the doorway and imagined him there on the bed, naked, sprawled on his back with one hand tucked under his head. His cock thick and swollen, balls heavy while he thought about her.

“What?” he asked gruffly.

Color burned her cheeks. “I was just thinking you need more pillows.”

He flashed her a look that said he wasn’t buying it, then distracted her when he unbuttoned his shirt. She wet her lips and watched as more and more skin and muscle were revealed. He looked as though he’d been carved from granite. Big, powerful, virile.

Brick didn’t just look at her, he smoldered. As if he was reliving what they’d shared the night before and anticipating what was yet to come.

“So, just to be clear. You haven’t changed your mind?”

There it was. That subtle quirk of his lips. He opened the closet door and deposited his shirt in the laundry basket on the floor.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She would have told him had she not lost the power of speech and thought when his hands went to his belt buckle. The whisper of his belt slipping free of the loops sent a delicious shiver down her spine. He coiled the belt with deft fingers and placed it in the top drawer of the tall dresser next to the bathroom door.

Swallowing hard, she watched as he undid the fly of his jeans and shoved them down his muscular thighs. He was hard. The thick shaft that bobbed between those bitable thighs acted as a hypnotist’s watch. The jeans went into the laundry basket, too. He closed the closet door, giving her an impeccable view of the eighth wonder of the world, Brick Callan’s ass.

Butt bongos. The phrase floated to her from the deep recess of her mind. “Oh my God,” she groaned, bringing her hands to her cheeks.

He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Problem?”

“I just remembered butt bongos.”

Every inch of her skin heated under his leisurely regard. The man was going to melt her clothes right off without even touching her.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing toward the bed.

Oh, boy.

He disappeared into the bathroom, and she heard the shower turn on.

“Get it together, Ford,” she murmured.

She’d had sex before. Lots of it. This wasn’t her first time in a devastatingly handsome man’s bedroom. He was going to come out of that shower and use that big, hard body of his to make her scream. Despite the fact that she’d not only survived it but reveled in it the night before, she was suddenly as awkward and anxious as a virgin.

Brick made everything feel like it was an unforgettable first.

She hopped up onto the bed, testing the mattress. The white bedding was simple but soft. No potentially embarrassing squeaks that would broadcast their activities to Spencer downstairs.

She didn’t have a view of him in the shower and considered it a little too pervy to stand in the doorway and watch him wash all of that aroused acreage. Too keyed up to relax, she opened his nightstand drawer to snoop. There was an unopened box of condoms, a notepad and pen, a flashlight, and a neatly folded scrap of cotton. White with gold pineapples.