He was looking at them.
His arms had lowered. He stood at the water's edge — the waves breaking quietly around his ankles, his hands loose at his sides — and he was looking at all three of them with the specific, unguarded warmth of a man seeing something he finds genuinely pleasant.
His chest.
The chest was what hit you first, even if you didn't want it to. The specific, architectural quality of it — the abdominals stacked below the sternum with the clean precision of something built rather than managed, the shoulders broad in the uncomplicated, non-performed way of a man who simply was what he was. The collarbones that Celia had spent three weeks drawing from memory.
They were accurate.
She had gotten them right.
Then his gaze dropped — and theirs did too, helplessly, the chain reaction of three women's eyes following gravity and landing —
His cock.
There was no way to look at it and think about anything else for approximately four seconds.
