Page 56 of Dare to Love Me

Peering through a tiny gap, I see him messing with the lamp. The light softens, casting this warm, cozy glow—wait, is he actually setting a mood? My throat lets out a gulp so loud I’m surprised it doesn’t echo across the campsite.

He reaches for his T-shirt hem and up it goes. Those back muscles ripple and suddenly the shirt’s gone and it’s just . . . him. Standing there in nothing but shorts.

I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop the completely undignified noise trying to escape my throat. Becausebloody hell.

Edward Cavendish is BUILT.

Not in a loud, gym-obsessed, “I live off protein shakes” way, but strong. Capable.

I shamelessly take in every detail, fully aware I’ve dug myself into a hole and am only sinking deeper.

His arms and shoulders look like they were sculpted by someone with very specific intentions about making women lose their minds.

And that stomach . . . good lord. Defined planes and a dark trail of hair that leads down like a sinful treasure map . . .

God yes.

Now that’s a bulge.

This is a body made for stamina—hours hunched over operating tables or . . . well, other pursuits.

It’s criminal for someone to be England’s brainiestandlook like a Greek statue come to life.

Through the narrow gap in the wardrobe doors, I watch him apply deodorant. Each movement is deliberate, calculated—like he’s performing surgery instead of just stopping his pits from sweating. No wonder they trust him with scalpels.

The cap clicks shut with precision.

Then he turns.

Straight toward the wardrobe. Towardme.

My breath snags in my throat. He’s going to open it. He’s going to see me. And then what the hell do I say?

But he doesn’t reach for the door. Instead, his thumbs hook into the waistband of his shorts, and—oh.

Ohfuck me.

They hit the floor, and my brain short-circuits. Complete system failure.

Edward Cavendish stands in front of the wardrobe mirror, completely naked and unaware of my presence.

My eyes widen in shock as I see it, the largest and most magnificent cock I have ever laid eyes on.

Well.

That explains the confidence. The man’s clearly winning at life.

I might be drooling. No, wait—Iamdrooling.

Because his cock? It’s a fucking masterpiece. Eighth wonder of the world, right there. Thick, long, and undeniably perfect, each vein and ridge clearly defined.

That’s a two-handed situation. Maybe even three, if you’ve got dainty hands like mine. The sheer thickness of it makes my thighs press together.

Forget Mrs. Cavendish’s marble statue,thisis what they should be immortalizing in stone.

He checks his stubble in the mirror, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s giving me the most exclusive, intimate show of my entire life.

My body responds with a throb that’s wildly inappropriate. Though really, what part of hiding naked in a man’s closet could ever be considered appropriate?