Anticipation—or possibly terror—washed over me in unrelenting waves. Whatever the emotion, it caused my stomach to clench. My pulse to quicken. My lungs to seize. The man walking up the stairs toward my bedroom was the sexiest thing I’d seen since first discovering boys in kindergarten. I was an early bloomer. The fact that this particular boy lived in my basement was a definite plus. But at the moment, the heavy footsteps treading purposefully toward my door caused a flush of warmth to spread throughout my chest. And my nether regions. 

Mostly my nether regions. 

Wearing only a T-shirt that proclaimed Witches do it on the fly, I curled my fingers into the sheets on either side of me and held my breath. 

He knocked softly before easing the door open, and the man standing at the threshold took my breath away. He crossed his arms over a wide chest—thankfully it was his—and leaned against the frame. Auburn hair streaked with gold brushed the tops of his shoulders. Olive irises canopied with thick lashes shimmered in the low light as they studied me. A full, sculped mouth held steady even as his strong jaw flexed. 

And the kilt. 

He wore a dark leather kilt, a khaki T-shirt, and heavy work boots. With his hair, his build, and the tattoo ink lacing over his forearms and up one side of his neck, he defined that rare quality known as panty-melting sex appeal. 

“Ms. Dayne,” he said, his voice smooth, deep, and intoxicating.