That night, I was propped up in bed, shirtless, laptop balanced on my thighs, when Payton stepped out of the bathroom. Steam still clung to her skin; droplets trailed slowly down her arms and chest as she patted herself dry with a towel. I watched, mesmerized, as she reached for her night cream and began smoothing it over her pale, flawless skin—every slow circle of her fingers tempting in the soft lamplight.
Our eyes met. She gave me a playful wink. I let out a quiet chuckle.
Once she finished, she slipped into her usual silky nightgown and glided toward the bed with exaggerated slowness, hips swaying in a teasing little dance meant only for me. She reached over, gently lifted the laptop from my lap, and set it on the nightstand.
I laughed. “What are you doing?”
In the next heartbeat
