He conjured up an image of a fresh Alpine stream, clear water burbling over mossy rocks. He even resorted to imagining a photograph of his grandmother, the one where she was looking very stern and schoolmarmish . None of it stopped the rest of his body from whooping it up over the sight of Claire wearing only a bra. Suddenly he was thankful for the heat inside the elevator that had necessitated her removing her shirt. From the soft, even tan across her chest and torso to the gentle rise of her breasts from one of the sexiest bras he'd ever seen, she was a revelation. She was hot. Damn hot. His body seemed determined to worship that hotness in its own special way, and no matter what he told himself, he was unable to stop it. Not since the uncertain years of adolescence had his body been so at odds with his mind. Claire wasn't his type. And they didn't get along. So why was he wondering if she tasted as good as she looked? Dear Reader, How fantastic to be writing those two words!
