Page 10 of The Invitation

The door suddenly opens, and I’m engulfed in cool air. It’s a brief reprieve from the intense heat, and the door is soon closed again, whoever’s joining me not wanting to lose the temperature in this sweatbox.Fuck, it’s hot.I wait for ahelloor ahiand get nothing. So I follow suit and say nothing too, squinting as a body cuts through the steam, just close enough to see it’s a man’s body. A big body. A tall, lean,hardbody. He lowers to the bench opposite me, becoming a hazy silhouette, and my wet, hot skin starts to tingle.

Oh no.

I inhale, inflating my lungs and burning them at the same time. It’s suddenly a lot hotter. Something skims my ankle. And hotter.Fuck.Electricity charges the steam-filled space, and I quickly pull my legs down from the bench as he moves across a bit more, putting himself directly in front of me. I can’t see him clearly, but I can feel him. Then he leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and I see his fingers lace, his hands joining. My eyes remain locked there. Those fucking hands.

Instinctively pushing back against the tile wall, I feel bare and vulnerable, despite knowing he can’t possibly see me clearly either. Does he know it’s me in here? I glance at the panel on the wall, noting the temperature has dropped to forty-six degrees Celsius. Then why in hell does it feel like it’s getting hotter? I breathe in, breathe out, reach for my brow, and wipe away the beads of water. Breathe in, breathe out.

Hotter.

I can’t stand it.

I get up and move through the unbearable heat, bursting out of the door and taking in air urgently, shaking like a bloody leaf. “Shit,” I whisper, quickly closing the door and staring at the glass. I should get a towel and dry myself. I should go back to the changing rooms. I should jump in an ice bath to snap myself from this fluster.

The door opens, steam billows out.

Oh fuck.

He emerges from the mist like some kind of mythical creature, and I’m useless once again. My lungs have drained. I can’t talk. Can’t think. He’s so bloody good-looking.Dangerouslygood-looking. My eyes drop.

Remember that word, Amelia.Dangerous.

I’m staring at his bare feet. Then his calves.

His thighs. His cut stomach. His chest. His neck.

His face.

Our eyes meet briefly before his lazy gaze falls slowly down my body, his lip lifting at the corner. “Are you okay?” he asks.

No.“Yes.” I quickly grab my towel and wrap my exposed body, and he pouts. It’s so cheeky, his dimple deepening.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says, his voice low.

I shudder.For fuck’s sake.“You didn’t disturb me.”

“So you usually only last a few minutes, huh?”

I baulk at him.

“In the steam room,” he adds, rubbing his chest with his hand, through the sheen of sweat and over glistening, solid muscles.

Have mercy.

He pulls a towel off a nearby hook, and all the signs suggest my torture is about to extend.

“It was particularly hot today,” I murmur.Because I had company.My eyes nearly cross when every one of his muscles flexes and rolls as he rubs himself down. This is bloody unbearable.

“Wasn’t it?” he muses, his eyes burning into me, making me shift on the spot. What the hell is wrong with me? I feel like every sense Ipossess, including my sense of reason, has done a runner on me. I can’t find my tongue either. “What do you do?”

I withdraw. “Pardon?”

“What do you do?”

“For work?”

His smile is mild. Is he going to cover himself with that towel, because I’m really struggling? “Yes, for work.”

“What is this?” I ask.

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