He’s all defined muscles and ink. I could tell he was ripped even with clothes on, but holy hell, this man is something else. He has the kind of build that makes your brain short-circuit. The kind of body you feel over every inch of your skin before you even touch it.
“I’m thirsty,” I mutter, but by the time the words are out of my mouth, Dominic’s eyebrows jump, and I realise how bad that sounds. “For water,” I quickly clarify.
A low chuckle vibrates in the back of his throat, and I silently pray for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
“I can get you some,” he says, his voice softer now, almost careful. “Water, I mean.”
He steps back, ready to turn down the hall, and something in me panics at the idea of him leaving. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and catch his hand. My fingers wrap around his warm skin, and a sharp bolt of electricityshoots up my arm, so sudden and fierce I’m forced to suck in a breath.
He freezes, looking down at our hands, then back up at me.
“Can you maybe find me some paracetamol, too?” I ask, my voice barely steady.
The shock of touching him lingers, buzzing through my limbs. I lift my free hand to my chest, trying to regulate my heartbeat before it gives me away completely.
“You okay?” he asks, a frown tugging between his brows.
I nod, even though I’m not sure that’s true. “Yeah. I just … didn’t realise how dehydrated I was.”
He studies me for a second longer, like he can see every lie written across my skin, then he gives my hand the slightest squeeze before letting go.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, and for some reason, those simple words settle the chaos in my chest.
I sit on the side of the bed while he’s gone, hands clasped together between my knees, pretending my heart isn’t still thudding as if it’s trying to escape my chest. The room feels too quiet, too big, and too unfamiliar.
I focus on my breathing, on keeping myself calm, but the lingering buzz from touching his skin refuses to fade.
Soft footsteps in the hall make me look up.
Dominic reappears in the doorway, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle in the other. My eyes betray me instantly, dropping to the floor and catching on his bare feet, then drifting upwards over his grey sweats.
They sit low on his hips, revealing that delicious V that disappears into the waistband, which should honestly be illegal. My stomach gives a slow, traitorous flip, and I snap my gaze up to his face before I get caught ogling him like some kind of man-thirsty hoe.
Sonia’s ovaries nearly exploded when she watchedDominic feed Peach that time at La Riviera. If she were here now, seeing what I’m seeing, she’d probably keel over and die right on the spot. And I wouldn’t blame her. I’m barely holding it together myself.
Mick is tall like him, but that’s about where the similarities end. Mick’s body is lean, almost wiry, and he doesn’t have a single tattoo because he’s petrified of needles. The irony of it always amused me. A big, bad bikie who doesn’t think twice about breaking the law and can throw punches without a blink, but show him a tattoo machine and he turns into a trembling puppy.
Dominic, though, looks like he was carved out on purpose. All muscles and ink, with an intensity that takes your breath away. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t just walk into a room, he fills it.
He’s standing in front of me, half-dressed, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, while I’m over here trying to remember how my lungs work.
I rub the heel of my palm over my chest, and Dominic frowns again. “Do you need your inhaler?”
I nod once because I don’t know what else to say. I’m breathless, but I’m not entirely sure it has anything to do with my asthma.
He places the glass of water on the bedside table and hands me the bottle. I glance down at it, rolling it between my fingers until I can read the label. It’s children’s Panadol in liquid form. Was this all he could find?
“Where is your inhaler?” he asks.
“In the side pocket of my bag,” I say, pointing to where it sits on the floor by the wall.
Dominic crosses the room with that slow, heavy stride of his, the kind that pulls your eyes whether you want them to follow or not. He crouches beside my bag, muscles shifting under his skin, and unzips the pocket.
His big, meaty hand slips inside, searching, andsomething about the sight of him doing such a simple, careful thing for me makes my throat tighten for a whole different reason.
He finds the inhaler and stands, turning back towards me with that same concentrated concern in his eyes, like my breathing is suddenly the most important thing in the world to him.
Mick never really cared about my asthma. Sometimes he even made me feel like it was nothing but an inconvenience, something he had to tolerate. He’d roll his eyes when I wheezed, sigh when I reached for my inhaler, and acted like I was being dramatic instead of just trying to breathe.
