Rowan was standing in the center of the room. His back was turned to the door. He had already discarded his dark morning coat and his waistcoat. He removed the white linen shirt that was ruined by the dark red stain of spilled wine and was laid in a crumpled, discarded heap on the thick carpet.
He was entirely bare from the waist up.
Delaney stopped walking. She forgot how to breathe. She just stood there, her feet rooted to the ground.
Rowan, with his back to the door, looked exactly like a Greek God carved from warm, living marble. His hands were now resting firmly on his hip. His shoulders were impossibly broad, tapering down into a strong, narrow waist. Every movement he made caused the muscles in his back to shift and ripple with hidden strength. His arms, thick and heavily corded with muscle, looked like they could easily lift her right off the floor and put her straight onto the massive, four-poster bed that dominated the center of the room.
