"I'll take that as a compliment," she says, her face heating at the warm reverence of the way he breathes that single word. His broad, rough hands skim down her back, ovoer her bare skin, and then they're resting on her hips and he turns her. Joyce is forty-four years old, a grown woman, and she still has to fight the urge to cover herself with her hands when she turns around. She finds herself suddenly shy. Instead, she tousles her fingers into her dark hair, her eyebrows slightly raised as she studies his face. The fact that he's still wearing all his clothes makes her warm. So does the fact that she's still in her heels.

"Your turn?" she says, reaching up to start unbuttoning his shirt.