A Perfect Hero. Caroline Anderson

      His laugh turned to a groan as she ran her fingertips experimentally down the centre of his chest. His eyes closed, he lay rigid while she explored the changing textures and planes of hair and skin, tracing the smooth line of muscle and sinew, revelling in the feel of satin over steel. Fascinated by the contrast between vulnerability and strength, she dallied over the jut of his hipbones and the slight hollow of his pelvis above the taut, hard muscles of his thighs. His legs were strong and straight, well-muscled and smoothly tanned beneath the dense scatter of blond curls.

      She knelt by his feet, her fingers tracing each toe in turn, smoothing the strong arch as her eyes trailed slowly up his body, absorbing his beauty like a drug.

      ‘You’re perfect,’ she said huskily, ‘so perfect. A perfect hero!’

      He laughed self-consciously and reached down to pull her over him.

      ‘I’ve got scarry knees,’ he confessed.

      ‘So? All little boys have scarry knees. They probably aren’t any worse than mine.’