I wore a thin pink camisole, a pair of lace panties and nothing else. I sat up in the bed and scooted over to him. His package strained against his tight black briefs, and my hand itched to cup him, tug down his underwear and wrap my mouth around his. He popped the snap and shoved them down and off his legs. It landed in a pool of black on my floor. I bit my lip as he pulled at the back of his shirt, pulling it from his neck and over his head. “I’m pretty hot already,” he said, eyes at half-mast. Was there anything he did that wasn’t sexy as hell? He grinned, his top teeth tugging on his bottom lip. I propped my head up with my arm as I lay on my side facing him. It was him-his innate charm that made me want to strangle him one second and then hug him the next.Īnd I knew why. But it wasn’t his looks that tugged at my heart. Time and time again, I was taken aback by his off-the-charts hotness. With an effortless, almost feline grace, he rested one bulky shoulder against the doorjamb and considered me with intense eyes.Īt the growly sound in his tone, my stomach grew heavy, and my heart kicked up. Dark scruff covered his chiseled jawline, and his full lips tilted up in a half-smile. HE SAUNTERED INTO MY BEDROOM wearing low-slung jeans and a tight black shirt, his wavy hair a mess as if he’d raked his hand through it a million times. Can I just hold you in my arms and watch you sleep?
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