Shakingly aware of him watching me, I spit foam into the sink and rinse my mouth out.
“My clothes look good on you,” he murmurs.
Ashamed, I whisper, “Th-thank you.”
Wasting no time, he strips off his on-brand trench coat, baring every glorious inch of his bare chest. I swallow the sight down, in a desperate effort to get myselfokaywith this, with what’s inevitably about to happen. As my eyes skate over the tattoos painted across his flesh, I repeatthis is finein my skull, over and over.
He’s literally so hot, and I’m literally super attracted to him, aren’t I? He’s made of dreams and beauty. He’s ethereal. Any woman would want this. Many would beg for it.
I’m so not sure aboutgetting pregnant, but if Mom thinks it’s stupid not to do what he says, then I’ll cope. I’ll obey. I’ll—
He drops his trench coat on my shoulders, pulling the fabric around me and covering my body down to my ankles in a massive hug of dark leather. “Scoot over, cupcake,” he says, absently grazing the top of my head with his fingers when I do as I’m told and let him in to the miniscule space with me.
He pulls his toothbrush out of its holder, then begins to…small talk. “I can’t wait to get home tomorrow.”
I watch him squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles of his brush and try to follow the attempt at a conversation that doesn’t seem to lead me into his bed quite so fast. I say, “It…must be nice to get home after so long.”
“Mm,” he mumbles. “I miss my brothers.”
His brothers. The Bachelors. Some of the most powerful men in the world. Together, the four Bachelor brothers have cornered the market on media, from Viktor, the author; to Zakery, the artist; to Kyran, the internet sensation; to Lukas…the popstar who somehow keeps managing to top charts with every new release.
His music isn’t just catchy; it’s addictive, relatable, soul-changing. And him? He’s…distinct.
It is, after all, hard to forget a dark angel.
I lose myself tracing the ink on his skin. Across his breast, phoenix wings beat flames. Around his waist, dragon scales claw. The etchings are beautiful, adding to his overall enigmatic appeal.
While I’m lost in my thoughts, he spits in the sink. “You like my tattoos?” he asks.
“Y-yes?” Stomach curdling, I wring my hands together and meet his eyes in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. One is so dark it appears black. The other is so gray and pale in contrast, it may as well be white.
He is…beautiful. Haunting.
I probably could have done worse—when it comes to being harangued into heinous acts of intimacy without much notice, at any rate.
Eyeing me back in the glass, Lukas brushes the waves of his long black hair, then he murmurs, “What’s wrong, cupcake?”
Wrong? He’s not serious, right? Surely he knowsexactlywhat’s wrong. The egregious lack of consent is what’swrong. Nevertheless, reedy and oblivious, I echo, “Wrong?”
“You’re shivering. Are you cold?”
In this coat? Don’t be ridiculous. His body heat’s still wicking into my veins from it.
“Poor thing.” He sighs, turning to face me directly. Genuine pity almost seems to fill his face with sadness. Except, of course, then he says, “Come on. Let’s get you warm.”
This is it. My stomach swirls as he escorts me out of the bathroom and toward his bed. I tremble as he helps his coat off my shoulders then hangs it up. I’m debating informing him that I don’t know what at all it is he expects of me when he peels back the sheets and motions for me to climb in.
I do as I’m told, and he covers me with the blankets.
Bracing myself for the worst, I stare up at him, gripping the fluffy comforter as heloomsthere.
Just.
Looms.
Arms folded, he doesn’t touch me as he tucks the blankets around my chin. “You’re gonna love it in Sunset,” he murmurs, voice soothingly deep. He touches me. I flinch, squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s just his fingers against my hair again, caressing the straight blonde locks gently. “We have, like, eight kitchens. You can pick whichever is your favorite. And I’ll buy you whatever you need to stock it.”
That…sounds amazing. I could make macaroons without sobbing over the price of almond flour.
