The cold water from the pail that he dumped over his head made him toss his head back, his long wet hair flying, his mouth open in an unselfconscious gasp. Gemma realized then that she would never be able to forget that moment, especially after it made her wonder what Mr. Worthington looked like when he orgasmed.

His face damp with sweat, over hers, pleasure thundering through his body, him swelling inside her….

Yes, it would definitely stay with her always.

His shoulders were broad and although he was a bit thin, his muscles lay strapped tightly to his frame. His thinness only revealed the rippling strength all the more when he hauled another bucket of water high to sluice it over his upturned face.

He took the icy blast more stoically this time, merely giving a quick animal shudder like a fine horse. Then he used his hands to sweep the rest of the mud stains from his skin, leaving him clean and gleaming in the afternoon light.

Oh Mr. Worthington, you are beautiful. Those wide shoulders tapered to narrow hips. Soaked trousers clung to the firm buttocks and thighs of a horseman. He lifted a hand to sweep his wet hair from his face and she was treated to the intimate awareness of his paler ribs and dark tufted underarm. She felt like a spy. A deliciously wicked voyeur. Show me more.

The ache, the one she refused to acknowledge, the one that woke her up some nights with feverish dreams, the empty, cold feeling of stretching her hand to meet nothing but chilled linens on the other side of the bed — yes, that ache — roared to life from some hidden place inside her, taking her breath away with the sudden relentless force of her hunger. I want him.

She leaned forward closer to the window, her uninjured hand pressed to the glass as she watched the muscles of his back ripple when he put both hands up to squeeze the water from his hair. She bit her lip as it ran in rivulets down his spine, all the way down, to where his soggy trousers hung low on his hips and she could just barely see where his buttocks began. She went up on tiptoe, striving to be taller, hoping to see more.

He turned her way then and her jaw dropped. If she thought the rear was handsome, she was in no way prepared for the frontal view. The hair on his chest and belly was dark and curling, beaded with water. The damp hair made a tempting inky arrow pointing down, down across his flat muscled abdomen down to his naval and beyond. Was it an invitation? Come this way.

The wet trousers clung. Mr. Worthington was — well, one might say that his large frame and long hands and feet did not disappoint.

Gemma swallowed hard. Oh, so hungry.