Anyway, there she stood, ironing her underwear—being single left her with way too much time on her hands—when suddenly, it appeared in the middle of her living room. It wasn’t a spectacular living room as living rooms went, outfitted with a secondhand sagging couch and chair, a coffee table that wobbled, and some kind of Oriental print rug in bad need of a beating. A receptionist’s salary didn’t go far in the city.

Needless to say, when it appeared, it did so right on top of her flimsy coffee table, which under its weight collapsed, something her visitor absently noted when it looked down at its bare and fairly large feet.

Studying it in shock, Diana amended the “it” part to “Holy Hunk” because, if it hadn’t been for the fact his skin shone a startling sky blue, she would have mistaken him for some super-hot underwear model—one who magically appeared in her living room, only sans the underwear.

Good thing he’s hung like a . . .

With flaming cheeks, Diana quickly averted her gaze, but his sizable endowment stayed with her, and flustered, she stammered, “Wh-Who are you?” Other than the most gorgeous naked man I’ve ever seen. She was so startled by her naked visitor that she accidentally left the iron lying on her underwear too long, and a burning smell wafted up. Nose twitching, Diana quickly set the iron upright and looked down in dismay at the big burn mark on the ass of her favorite pair of undies. Damn.