turned away and hobbled down the hall.
Laine turned the other way, pulling out her key as she walked and berating herself for not being more spontaneous, more trusting, more confident. More willing to risk additional embarrassment by following Colin back to his room. Why hadn’t she? She was afraid.
Once inside her room she tilted her head and sniffed her arm pits. There was another reason why she hadn’t followed him. She slipped out of her sandals and headed for the shower, peeling off layers of travel clothing as she went and revealing other scented reasons for why she didn’t jump into a tangled mess of limbs with Mr. Colin Ellington. She turned on the shower. As she waited for the hot water to flow she scrutinized herself in the mirror. Her wavy brown hair looked flat on one side and frizzy on the other. Her brown eyes looked tired, the skin under them slightly puffy, and her long mascara-clumped eyelashes were definitely in need of a retouch. Her lips, normally full and soft, looked thinner and drier. Is that why Colin had been staring at them in the elevator? Not because he wanted to kiss them but because he was trying to figure out how to avoid doing just that? Naked under the bathroom light, Laine thought she looked lumpy, the kind of lumpy that no amount of lingerie could improve. She climbed into the steaming shower. The pricks of hot water stung as harshly as cold hard reality. She’d been a fool to think she could rekindle her chemistry with Colin.
Colin
Colin felt like a lame stag as he wrapped his ankle in ice. It wasn’t excruciatingly painful, but it ached enough to be distracting when he’d wanted to put all his attention on Laine. He still felt dumbfounded that they had simply — and painfully — crashed into each other. What were the odds of that? It had to be Fate. He was sure of it. But why hadn’t Fate orchestrated something more elegant? More romantic? More… sexy ?
He’d dreamt of seeing her again for months, and had almost given up on that dream until she’d emailed. Now here they both were in Florence, and he had acted like a yob. With his twisted ankle he was now a handicapped yob. Even if he felt like sweeping her off her feet, he wasn’t physically able to. At least not today. He sighed, removed the ice for a few minutes, and limped over to the bathroom to run a tub. He didn’t want to stand on his ankle in the shower. He could lay back in the tub and keep his ankle on ice a bit longer. As the water filled the tub, Colin considered his options: he could go this meeting tomorrow, purchase the painting for his client, and then get on a plane back to London. He’d forget this ludicrous sentimentality of trying to squeeze something more out of what was simply a beautiful memory. A beautiful, hot, sexy memory… The kind of memory he simply couldn’t forget.
Colin frowned. The tub was full. He twisted the taps off and, balancing on one leg, stripped his clothes off. The bathroom mirror reflected his awkward movements and he couldn’t help giving his image some attention.
He looked good. He knew that. He worked out, didn’t over eat, played football on weekends (or soccer , as Americans called it), and sex, of course, was the best workout going, which is partly why he participated as often as he could. Even if it lacked lustre these days. It lacked meaning. Sex wasn’t supposed to be exercise . He knew something was wrong with that approach.
His torso and biceps looked lean and cut, but it was just a matter of time, wasn’t it? His slim middle would soften. His knees would start to ache. He wouldn’t always want to run around the pitch on Saturdays. He wouldn’t always want to be on top for sex. He might like to lie back. Be ridden.
His boxers were the last to fall and as they did he saw, and felt, evidence of his last few thoughts. He looked good there, too, he had to admit. At least he thought so. He pushed close to seven inches when erect, and was thick from base to
Laine turned the other way, pulling out her key as she walked and berating herself for not being more spontaneous, more trusting, more confident. More willing to risk additional embarrassment by following Colin back to his room. Why hadn’t she? She was afraid.
Once inside her room she tilted her head and sniffed her arm pits. There was another reason why she hadn’t followed him. She slipped out of her sandals and headed for the shower, peeling off layers of travel clothing as she went and revealing other scented reasons for why she didn’t jump into a tangled mess of limbs with Mr. Colin Ellington. She turned on the shower. As she waited for the hot water to flow she scrutinized herself in the mirror. Her wavy brown hair looked flat on one side and frizzy on the other. Her brown eyes looked tired, the skin under them slightly puffy, and her long mascara-clumped eyelashes were definitely in need of a retouch. Her lips, normally full and soft, looked thinner and drier. Is that why Colin had been staring at them in the elevator? Not because he wanted to kiss them but because he was trying to figure out how to avoid doing just that? Naked under the bathroom light, Laine thought she looked lumpy, the kind of lumpy that no amount of lingerie could improve. She climbed into the steaming shower. The pricks of hot water stung as harshly as cold hard reality. She’d been a fool to think she could rekindle her chemistry with Colin.
Colin
Colin felt like a lame stag as he wrapped his ankle in ice. It wasn’t excruciatingly painful, but it ached enough to be distracting when he’d wanted to put all his attention on Laine. He still felt dumbfounded that they had simply — and painfully — crashed into each other. What were the odds of that? It had to be Fate. He was sure of it. But why hadn’t Fate orchestrated something more elegant? More romantic? More… sexy ?
He’d dreamt of seeing her again for months, and had almost given up on that dream until she’d emailed. Now here they both were in Florence, and he had acted like a yob. With his twisted ankle he was now a handicapped yob. Even if he felt like sweeping her off her feet, he wasn’t physically able to. At least not today. He sighed, removed the ice for a few minutes, and limped over to the bathroom to run a tub. He didn’t want to stand on his ankle in the shower. He could lay back in the tub and keep his ankle on ice a bit longer. As the water filled the tub, Colin considered his options: he could go this meeting tomorrow, purchase the painting for his client, and then get on a plane back to London. He’d forget this ludicrous sentimentality of trying to squeeze something more out of what was simply a beautiful memory. A beautiful, hot, sexy memory… The kind of memory he simply couldn’t forget.
Colin frowned. The tub was full. He twisted the taps off and, balancing on one leg, stripped his clothes off. The bathroom mirror reflected his awkward movements and he couldn’t help giving his image some attention.
He looked good. He knew that. He worked out, didn’t over eat, played football on weekends (or soccer , as Americans called it), and sex, of course, was the best workout going, which is partly why he participated as often as he could. Even if it lacked lustre these days. It lacked meaning. Sex wasn’t supposed to be exercise . He knew something was wrong with that approach.
His torso and biceps looked lean and cut, but it was just a matter of time, wasn’t it? His slim middle would soften. His knees would start to ache. He wouldn’t always want to run around the pitch on Saturdays. He wouldn’t always want to be on top for sex. He might like to lie back. Be ridden.
His boxers were the last to fall and as they did he saw, and felt, evidence of his last few thoughts. He looked good there, too, he had to admit. At least he thought so. He pushed close to seven inches when erect, and was thick from base to
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