Night Jasmine by Erica Spindler

beautiful he was, nor had time embellished her memories of him. He was subtly muscled and strong; he had the body of a man who had been active all his life. His skin was tan and firm and would be warm against her hands, becoming hot when sexually aroused. His broad shoulders and chest tapered down to narrow hips and a flat, hard stomach. A dusting of golden hair covered his chest, forming a vee that disappeared beneath the waistband of his low-slung shorts.
    Aimee followed the line of the vee with her eyes, stopping when she realized just what she was looking at. She jerked her gaze up to his, her cheeks hot with color.
    Although he said nothing, a smile tugged at his mouth. He knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was feeling. The heat in her cheeks became fire. She cursed both the color and her response to him.
    She took a deep breath. “May I come in?”
    For a split second she sensed hesitation in him, then he swung the door wider. “Sure.”
    Aimee moved past him and into his room. She’d seen this room hundreds of times before, but tonight it looked different to her. It felt different. As if his presence had changed it, charged the atmosphere with his own personal energy.
    That energy crackled along her nerve endings, heightening each of her senses. She could smell the subtle male scent of him, that of his spicy soap in the bathroom, the yeasty scent of beer. She could feel the warmth of his body and the gentle breeze kicked up by the fan above, could hear her own thundering heart, his even breathing.
    Dear Lord, she was losing it. She told herself the room was no different than it had been last week, that she was still exhausted, that she was coming down with something.
    She didn’t believe her own reassurances. Everything was changed. She was changed.
    Aimee turned her gaze to him. She tried to smile and failed miserably. “I brought you…dinner,” she said. “Marie’s étouffée is the best in the parish—it would be a shame to miss it. Besides, I don’t think she’d ever forgive me if you did.”
    A ghost of a smile touched his mouth and he took the tray. “She takes good cooking seriously.”
    â€œIt wasn’t just that.” Aimee met his eyes, then looked uncomfortably away. “She thinks you’re the best thing since cayenne pepper. She spent the entire meal talking about your visit.”
    â€œSorry I missed that,” he said solemnly. “Obviously, she doesn’t know me the way you do.” Turning, Hunter placed the tray on the bed, then faced her once more. “You didn’t have to do this, Aimee.”
    â€œYes…I did.” She slipped her hands into the front pockets of her shorts. “But your missed dinner isn’t the only reason I’m here. I wanted to…apologize for earlier. I was out of line.”
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œI can’t. I need to…get this off my chest.” She cleared her throat. “You were right, I was exhausted. Today was a nightmare and when I came home and found you and Oliver having such a…good time together, my imagination took wing and I just lost it. I’m sorry.”
    Hunter reached out and touched her cheek, just once and lightly, then dropped his hand. “You’re human.”
    The urge to cry hit her so hard it took away her breath. For the second time in a matter of hours she wanted to lean in to him, wanted him to hold her and stroke her; she wanted him to absorb her tears and give her his strength.
    Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and held tightly to her control. “And I wanted to thank you for fixing Oliver’s swing. I kept promising him and putting it off. I feel bad about that.”
    â€œYou can’t do everything.”
    â€œNo? Sometimes it seems like there’s no one el…” Her voice cracked and she choked the words back, forcing a weak smile. “Never mind. I guess