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"What are you doing here?"

Amaya paused on the threshold to the kitchen and stared at the big man who stood in front of the open refrigerator wearing only baggy sweatpants, without shoes or a shirt, he turned around slowly to meet her eyes and she swallowed past the huge lump in her suddenly dry throat, God he was so much more beautiful than she remembered. She, however, felt unattractive and sloppy in the Sylvester the Cat silk shortie pyjamas she was wearing. She knew that she had a sleep crease down the side of her face and her hair looked like a bird's nest.

"I live here," he replied casually, one hand grasping a carton of orange juice and the other lazily rubbing back and forth over the rippled contours of his abdomen.

Her fascinated gaze fell to that hand and she imagined her own hand replacing his, she shook herself slightly to rid herself of the erotic image and focused on her outrage at seeing him so casually standing in the kitchen.

"You're usually at work by this time,"
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