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But his gaze was so realistic on the portrait that the fantasies about him spun in my head and wouldn’t go away until they found release.
And here we are. Jace is now my bedroom secret.
Today, I get up super early. I want to make breakfast for him. This has become my favorite part of the day—waking up to Jace at home.
I pour myself a steaming cup of coffee and listen to the sound of the running tap in his bathroom, then close my eyes and imagine what he’s doing, what he’s wearing, what he looks like naked.
My fantasies spin in my mind, lacing with the ones from the night before, until the cup in my hands tilts, spilling the coffee onto my wrist.
“Ouch!” I yelp and drop the cup onto the floor, the hot splashes and glass pieces going everywhere.
The door to Jace’s room swings open.
“What happened?” he asks as he rushes to the kitchen. “Shit. Don’t move.”
I raise my eyes at him, and my heart…stops.
I once watched the famous time-lapse video of a Monarch butterfly emerging out of its cocoon. It’s amazing and beautiful and is only a minute and a half long.
What I see right now has the same effect, except the scene cuts right away from what I knew about Jace tonowas he stands in all his half-naked glory.
He examines the mess, grabs a paper towel, and bends over to wipe the floor by the fridge, checking for glass.
“Okay, step away from the glass over there by the fridge. Let me clean up. You can cut your feet on the glass.”
I don’t answer and just keep staring at him.
Wow.
He’s wearing only sweatpants. No glasses, no shirt. I could tell before that his body was toned. He works out and jogs.
Exceptthisbody—oh, hell—should be on theSports Illustratedmagazine cover.
But that’s not what has me gawking.
His entire front torso is tattooed.
“Lu?”
As he straightens up, my gaze slides from the V of his dog tag hanging between the perfect pectorals to the midsection covered in intricate tribal designs, down, down…
“Lu?”
I raise my eyes to meet his.
His are tense with worry. “Take one step to stand over there, please.”
He helps me to step onto the dry tile. I stare at his hand holding mine like it belongs to someone else, someone else’s perfect inked body.
“Don’t move.”
I can’t even talk, startled by the sight.
He takes another paper towel and starts wiping the floor in front of me, and I stand frozen in my place and stare.
Holy moly, his back is tattooed, too.
Whoisthis guy? A salesman, right? Right?! Anyone can get tattoos. But an office guy his age doesn’t have a reason to get professional art plastered all over his body.
