SINNERS: AN HOT COLLECTION
She straightened, turned toward the shower stall to polish the chrome fixtures—and froze.
Ethan Sinclair stood naked under the last faint trickle of water, one hand still on the control panel, the other loosely at his side. Water sluiced down the hard planes of his chest, over the ridged abs that looked carved from marble, and lower, following the sharp V of his hips straight to the heavy, thick length of his cock hanging between powerful thighs. Even soft, it was obscene—long, veined, the flushed head already glistening from the shower. As she stared, it twitched once, thickening visibly under her gaze.
Her breath caught. The playlist thumped on, but the rest of the world went silent.
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