The heavy teak door groaned ever so slightly as Mira pushed it. She stopped, the silver tray trembling in her grip, her breath catching in her throat.

Giri stood in the center of the room, a titan carved from mahogany and shadow. A single white towel was hitched precariously low on his hips, the cotton straining against the powerful columns of his thighs. The "V" of his pelvic muscles dipped sharply into the fabric, a roadmap of raw, masculine power. At fifty, he didn't just command the room; he dominated the very air within it. His six-pack abs were taut, glistening with a few stray droplets of water that caught the morning light.