Close Proximity by Donna Clayton

his glorious hair unbound, his strong arms outstretched to the sky. The sight had seemed so sacred that she’d told herself to turn away and allow himhis privacy. But he had so enthralled her that she had been simply unable to tear her eyes away.
    Her nights here had been agonizing. Haunted by erotic dreams of Rafe, she tossed and shifted beneath the blankets, her skin burning under his illusory, wraithlike touch. The night visions never failed to awaken her several times, her heart pounding, her skin damp, before morning would finally arrive and she could scramble from her bed and race to spy on this almost ethereal rite he performed daily.
    Now she was held rapt by the sight of him, just as she’d been every other morning. When he finally stood and lengthened his muscular body toward the heavens, Libby knew his meditations were complete and he’d be coming inside soon. She busied herself putting ground beans and water into the coffeemaker and flipping on the machine.
    He entered through the back door, greeting her with a smile, and Libby felt her heart ka-chunk against her ribs. He was such a handsome man, and the attraction that swirled and danced around them when they were together was unmistakable. Undeniable. Like a lazy waltz that had progressively escalated into a frenzy, Libby knew the magnetism between them was building, becoming stronger and stronger.
    Waltz? No. This was more like a tango. A hungry, sexy, completely carnal need that was just waiting to consume them. The real question in Libby’s mind was just which one of them would be the first to succumb to the overwhelming force of it.
    â€œMorning.”
    She smiled a tight greeting. Why did he have to walk around half-naked? There was pride in his straight spine. Not a look-at-me kind of pride. This was more an inner dignity that simply couldn’t be missed.
    That heavy awkwardness settled over her. Over them both.
    â€œYou’re welcome to join me, you know.”
    Her cheeks flamed red hot and she was relieved that he’d turned away to fold the handwoven blanket he used every morning.
    â€œJoin you?”
    Oh, my. He wasn’t really aware that she watched him, was he? But how? His back was to her each morning. And she was always careful to move from the window when he rose and stretched.
    â€œIt’s good to give thanks. I’m grateful for all I have. I like to take the time to actually think it and say it.”
    She was grateful. Grateful that he wasn’t pressing the issue of her voyeurism. She made a silent vow to grant him some solitude tomorrow. But even as she made the promise to herself, she knew the next morning would find her once again at the kitchen window, her weak will having surrendered to the urge to observe him.
    â€œThe Great Spirit deserves thanks.”
    Shyly she asked, “Does The Great Spirit have a formal name to your people?” She wanted to hear him speak in his native tongue.
    â€œKit-tan-it-to’wet.”
    The lyric syllables rolled from his lips like soft music, and a shiver coursed across Libby’s skin.
    â€œThe Great One has blessed me in many ways,” he told her. “And I feel compelled to show my appreciation each morning.”
    With a silent nod and a small smile, she agreed with him, with his philosophy of cultivating an essence, a core, of gratitude.
    Then almost of its own volition, her gaze slid from his honed cheekbones, the hollows of his cheeks, his strongjaw, to his smooth chest. His stomach was flat, the muscles rolling in true washboard fashion. Night after night she’d fantasized about running her fingers over those hills and valleys, dreamed about what his strong, demanding hands would feel like on her own body.
    Libby dragged air into her lungs and forced her eyes to lift to his face. His mahogany gaze had narrowed. He knew. He knew the carnal thoughts that filled her mind. She realized it…could feel it in her bones.
    Embarrassed