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Diana reached out and took his hand long enough for a squeeze. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up quite a sweat on my missives. If we can’t rest, we can at least make ourselves presentable.”

Peter sighed. “You go first. Might as well get the hot water.”

She tittered slightly. “This is the Hilton, Peter. There will be ample hot water.”

“Don’t know if I should let myself get used to it, then.”

“There is cold water as well,” Diana assured him, and turned to go to the bathroom, taking a moment to step out of her boots, then proceeding on bare feet. She opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside. She knew his eyes followed her all the way there. She hoped he would follow his eyes.

Inside, she wiggled out of the top of her costume, then the bottom. The door was open, swung only halfway in front of the view. She stepped into the shower. Peter’s eyes followed that too.

She was tall, even by the standards of Mary Jane and her model friends, and her body was both athletically and voluptuously proportioned. Her black hair hung down her back long and silken, two thick locks of it falling across her shoulders to partially covered her full breasts. Peter could barely stifle the gasp that threatened to fly from his throat as he gazed at her full sensuality.

Then she swept her shining hair back to shampoo it and he studied the smooth, cream-white skin of her cleavage, the dark areolas perfect complements to the high buds of her nipples. She raised her arms over her head, tautly stretching the proud globes, gaining the appearance of a classical sculpture.

She stood that way for a long moment, letting the steamy water caress her, and his eyes followed that water, slowly down across the flat plains of her stomach, over the tiny indentation of her navel. The soft triangle of her pubic hair was as silky and black as her tresses, but much finer, trimmed so that he could see the tiny tip of her clit peeking out in an almost innocent shyness.

She turned slightly, letting her back take the brunt of the water as she soaped herself up, and Peter silently observed the softly dimpled roundness of her ass, the rippling muscles in the back of her full thighs. She had a fantastic figure. Peter’s cock leapt as he drank in her lush figure. Her tits were so full, her belly so flat, the mound of her pubis so perfectly painted with its darkness…

Then Diana stepped completely under the water and the full radiance of her alabaster skin appeared as the film of soap was washed away. Peter found himself walking toward her, one foot putting itself helplessly before another. Diana turned off the spray and pulled a towel from its bar. She rubbed her body; her skin seemed to ripple and radiate even more luscious life as she caressed every inch of herself in turn.

Peter came to the door, straining for a closer look. His breath caught as she squeezed her breasts together with a folded arm, and lowered the towel between her thighs. She began massaging her sex, running the towel up and down between her legs—head thrown back, eyes shut as if the towel were a lover giving her satisfaction. Her arm tensed, pulling her breasts together tighter and tighter. The firm flesh of the hills flattened as, at last, the nipples touched.

The towel dropped to the ground.

“I put on the costume because it was what I wore when we first met. Funny that you should like its absence more.”