Only him.
23
Remy
I’ve reread the same slide four times and haven’t retained any of it. They’re just words on a screen; a blur of lines and symbols and letters like hieroglyphs. Instead, I’m tuned into the physical manifestation of temptation.
About twenty minutes ago, Win kicked off his sneakers.
Ten minutes after that he extended a leg across the cushion.
Five minutes later he laughed at a video and pushed his toes into my thigh.
I swear he’s doing it on purpose.
His toes wiggle.
My eyes slide to him.
He bats his thick black lashes. “Hmm?”
“Cut the shit.”
A slow, devious smirk unfurls on his lips. “I’m not doing anything,” he shrugs, attention returning to his phone.
My glare narrows, but irritation doesn't last. I’m enraptured by the smallest facets of him. Like how his sharp canine pinches his lip when he's focused, or how the corners of his eyes crinklewhen he's holding in a laugh. But the more I discover, the harder it is to look away. My hungry gaze strays to the ink on his neck disappearing into the collar of his tee…
“Like what you see?”
I blink back to reality.
Coal-lined grey eyes dance with heat and humor.
My gut screams, “Deny!” But my heart thumps harder and my eyes demand to continue their feast. Which they do against my wishes. Down his chest where the thin cotton of his shirt stretches tight over his pecs, each breath teasing the lean muscle rippling beneath.
There’s fire in my blood and it’s rushing south.
Flicking my gaze back to his, I find the humor has vanished. Longing and lust darken his irises. I can almost hear him whisper,Admit it, admit it, admit it.
I don’t think I have the power to lie.
My chin dips.
His pupils blow out.
As if not to spook me, he tucks his legs beneath himself and slowly rises on all fours.
Oh god.
I’m.
So.
Very.
Fucked.
Paralyzed in a body rising in temperature, my jaw drops because he’s crawling toward me with a dangerous look on his face. A gust of musky cologne is the first wave of warning. A lock of hair falls over his forehead as he closes the distance—
