Isabella had rehearsed it. Gods, she had rehearsed it—right down to the sway of her hips and the smile that wasn't supposed to tremble.
She had left Ella's house with a plan. A seductive, wicked, tempt-your-husband-into-utter-oblivion sort of plan. She had even memorised three lines from Ella's scandalous book.
But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared her for the sight that greeted her when she stepped into their chamber.
There he was. Butt naked.
Standing beside the bath like some untamed god of war, with muscles carved out of vengeance and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness.
Her jaw slackened.
One would think, after the number of times she had seen the man naked—during injuries, baths, or shared nights—that she would have grown accustomed to it. But no. If anything, it had only made the problem worse.
