...Evil intent in his gaze, he starts inching toward me, sliding around the inner circumference of the circular sunken tub—a manmade fishpond, actually, but we relocated the fish, installed faucets and drains, and use it for bathing. Very chic. Beautiful blue marble with gold trim. The sumptuous centerpiece of an Arabian Nights style garden in the courtyard of Hunter’s billion-dollar “beach bungalow” on the Massachusetts coast.

A crystalline geodesic dome protects the garden from the New England weather. Feathery snowflakes fall outside, painting the world white, but we’re warm and toasty in here—too warm, I’m afraid—surrounded by fragrant blossoms and green fronds. Exotic splendor, lavish and lascivious. Sultry elegance, rich with the promise of fleshy delights.

“Thanks, I try,” Hunter says, a smug tilt to his lips.

My eyes narrow. “I was thinking of the courtyard, damn it.”

“Whatever.” The grin waxes wicked. “Wanna play Ottoman Empire? I’ll be the sultan and you can be my harem.”

Hmm, I do have a great belly-dancer costume…

He reaches for me, and I shimmy to the side.

Uh-uh… No touching! I refuse to succumb to his lethal seductive force until I gain a few concessions. Mind you, refusing sex—especially Hunter’s brand—isn’t something I’m famous for, but the headache helps. If I focus on that, maybe I can forget the other ache lower down.

Neck deep in hot water—in more ways than one—I scoot my endangered ass to the right as Hunter advances from the left.

“Keep it up,” he taunts. “I love a challenge.”

So do I, but not this kind. Unfortunately for me, it’s been “up” since he invaded my bath, shortly after I’d settled my bruised body—and ego—into the bubbles.

“I know. I can sense your arousal.”

Which increases his. And with it, his speed. To maintain my distance, I’m forced to match his pace.

Advance and retreat, around and around… I don’t know why I thought a bath would relax me. Soon we’ve made two full circuits and begun a third, moving faster and faster but always opposite each other, neither of us gaining or losing ground.

Cripes, this is making me dizzy. The chase whips up additional lather. Perfumed froth, lacy white and lush with the earthy aroma of patchouli, sloshes over the marble rim. Glub. I just swallowed some. The stuff smells a lot better than it tastes. Yuck.

“Here, try a mouthful of this instead.”

Without warning, Hunter stops. I hit my own brakes just in time to avoid slamming into him. For a breathless moment, I freeze, trapped in a high-beam amber glare. Then, like Poseidon rising out of the sea foam, Hunter stands and looms over me in an upright straddle stance.

Real upright.

I’m nose to nose with a mesmerizing erection.

Um…if cocks had noses, I mean. My eyes cross studying it.

How about nose to plum-sized swollen head? A big plum, purple tinted, ripe and juicy, satin smooth and slick with suds. Glistening with the diamond sparkle of water droplets… Smelling of patchouli and male musk…

Yes, I’m rambling. Who wouldn’t be with a delicious dick like this staring them in the face? The helpful headache melts away in the heat of the moment—softens and dulls as something else grows harder. It can’t compete with the sharper ache. All I feel is the pressure and burn as my own dick gains painful new proportions. All my awareness now centers on imminent sex. My nostrils flare and I lick my lips, inhaling the heady scent of desire…the scent of Hunter.

I’m so in trouble.

My breath quickens, and my pulse speeds right along with it.

Lord, have mercy… Help me, Herne, the Horned God of animals and shifters. Except Herne is pretty lusty, as most pagan deities are. He’d probably be on Hunter’s side… Hey, what about the Horned Goddess, Hathor?

“She’d agree with me, too.” A sinister chuckle underscores the words. “And you’re still rambling.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a defense mechanism, okay?”

“How’s it working?”