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I’m eyes-falling-down exhausted.
But this is exactly where I’ll slip up.
I need to wash my clothes. I have so few outfits, one clinging hint of perfume could bring me to ruin.
Minus the extra-long T-shirt and panties I’m wearing, I grab my entire wardrobe in one armful and head to the laundry room.
I realize my mistake the second the door swings open.
Hunter and Finn circle each other on the mats, sparring.
Shirtless.
Tiny shorts.
Every glistening muscle on display and twice as deadly as my fantasies.
Hunter’s bronze chest is tatted with geometric patterns so elaborate I wanna become a cartographer and map every line. They flow from his bobbing Adam’s apple, down his cut arms and eight-pack abs, disappearing into the waist of shorts so fucking obscene I can see every inch of what he’s packing.
It’s a lot of inches.
I don’t have a ruler, but if I did, I’d be fanning myself with that shit because ten is the conservative guess.
Finn’s back is to me, tight shoulders pale and shimmering with sweat. No tattoos, but scars. So many scars. Burns, grazes, bullet wounds.
And… A shark bite?
Maybe not, but his huge shoulder scar is gnarly. I’d pay more attention to it, but my eyes have their own agenda, dipping to his V-line, and the clingy shorts that show off his ass dimples.
Whoever bought their workout gear deserves a fucking medal.
You’re the MVP, booty short angel.
The way they move…
Hunter’s so jacked, I’d expect him to be slow, but Finn can’t land a clean hit. They punch, kick, try to sweep the other’s legs out. Finn looks like he’s barely moving, but he’s this coiled, deadly stillness. It’s like watching a pit bull fight a viper.
My body lights up, aching to jump between them.
I swallow a mouthful of saliva.
“Lilah?” Hunter lifts out of his fighting stance, every ab waving hello as he unfolds. “You okay?”
“Laundry,” I yelp, scurrying to the machine and praying I caked on enough lotion because the room reeks of Hunter’s sweet smoke and Finn’s orange-drenched scent that makes me wanna spread my legs and let them take turns doing whatever the fuck they want to me.
Or they can do me together.
Go, teamwork!
Except one whiff of the truth and they’ll send me packing.
I’m frantically shoving clothes into the washer when I feel the presence at my back. I reflexively dodge the attempt to grab my shoulder, spinning around, already gripping the blade I tucked into my panties.
“Babydoll.” Finn grins like a girl getting her first bouquet of roses. “Where were you carrying that knife?”
I exhale, but only allow myself to take back in a shallow lungful. I can’t get sucked in by Finn’s too-tempting scent. “You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, I do. Why don’t you show—”
