“Seriously, how do you not strut around all day? I’d never take these off.”

“Because I’m not a narcissist,” she fired back, poking his chest–her chest–with his finger. A soft smile curved his lips–Linda, he guessed, drawn despite herself–and he waited, his tall frame poised in satin and lace, ready for whatever came next.

Linda stood in the dark hallway, her bare feet cold on the hardwood, her hand gripping the doorknob to Ken’s room. His hands shot to her head,Massage fingers tangling in her dark hair, gripping tight as his biceps bulged. there, in his jeans, a telltale bulge straining against the fabric.