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And it arrests my breaths, my thoughts for a few seconds, how we are.
How my dress is all hiked up, baring more of my thighs than I usually do. And whatever is bared is hugging his sleek, sweaty waist.
And how intimate we look like this.
How our bodies are so in contrast with each other.
I’m so pale and creamy. And he’s so summery and olive-toned.
How my thighs are all fleshy and soft. And how there are freaking cuts on his obliques, a ladder in his abs. That V going down to his boxing shorts.
And then I flick my eyes up and up and realize that I was right.
Out there I mean.
People could study his body for science.
Even bruised and black and blue, he looks… epic.
He looks so cut and sleek and strong and, wait…
There’s a tattoo.
On his chest. Left side of it.
Numbers.
Random-looking. That I can’t make heads or tails of. But I know that these neat-looking digits weren’t there before. Not when he still lived at the manor.
“I think you do,” he murmurs.
My eyes fly up, horrified. “I-I do what?”
“Want something to do with me,” he reminds me of our conversation before I got so thoroughly distracted.
I resume pushing him away. “I don’t. I —”
“Ithink,” he rasps, staying put despite my efforts, “that you have a thing for me.”
“What?” I shriek almost.
“And I have a thing for you too.”
I freeze then.
I totally absolutely freeze.
My nails stop where they are, lodged into his skin, mashing over the vein on the side of his neck. My eyes stay locked with his. My spine stays bowed and my lips stay parted, gasping breaths.
His smirk is gone now.
So is his cocky, arrogant look.
Instead, his features are all intense. His eyes are liquid.
The bruises on his face make him look both dangerous and fragile.
Like he’s capable of crushing me, but I’m capable of crushing him too.
