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His shoulder-length blond hair is damp, probably from the sweat glistening on his muscled back and shoulders. A pair of drawstring gray sweatpants clings to his hips.Low. It’s loose, but it doesn’t quite hide the size of the bulge poking at the front of his pants.
I have one of the hottest, most eligible—not to mention wealthy—alphas in the city, standing half naked feet away from me.
And then I wish I were the bottle of water he’s gripping in one large fist. It’s insane—don’t think I’m not aware of how insane a thought like that is—but there you go. He tilts his head back and lifts his bottle of water to his mouth.
This is wrong. Especially when I’m someone who knows all too well how it feels to be objectified.
But it’s Rune Fontenot, and he’s shirtless and glistening with sweat.
And I just. Can’t. Stop. Looking.
The muscles in his pecs tense. I swallow a whimper as a bead of sweat slides down, landing in the dark-blond line of hair under his belly button.
I’m breathing hard, my mouth is dry, and yet I’m struggling to draw enough air into my lungs.
Finished drinking, he stretches, the muscles again rippling. What would it be like to touch that golden muscle? How good would it feel to have him wrap those powerful arms around me, to stroke that sweat-slicked, hot skin?
To taste it.
God, I want to know what he tastes like.
A soft moan slips out.
He angles his head my way.
I whip around and rush back to my room. When I’m behind the door, having wrestled the bedside table back in place, I stare at the white wood inches from my nose, that vision of perfection still filling my mind.
I don’t think I will ever forget it.
Knowing it won’t cool my flushed cheeks, I head for the bathroom because I need a shower. A cold one.
* * *
As I descend the stairs in a white linen dress that hits me to my knees and my hair in a braid hanging over my shoulder, Rune is stepping out of another room. Not the gym this time.
I swallow my disappointment to see he dressed for breakfast in a pair of navy sweats and a white T-shirt. His feet are bare, and the ends of his hair are still damp from what must have been a pretty recent shower. It makes sense he would dress for breakfast, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I have never ogled a person a day in my life—that’s just not who I am—but all I can think about is camping out in the gym with a bucket of popcorn and watching Rune work out.
“Mornin’, cher. How’d you sleep?” He grins up at me.
That accent. Why does a man that attractive have to have an accent to match?
I envision him braced over me in bed with his sweat-glistened skin, powerful chest mashing against my breasts, and thick, muscled thighs pinning me in place.
My eyes skip over a step, and I grip the balustrade to stop from plunging down the stairs and breaking my neck. “Fine. Thank you.”
He’s silent for so long that I risk a rapid glance at his face.
Only for my gaze to not quite make it there, snagging instead on his white T-shirt. I remember the hard, muscled body it contains and I choke back a gulp.
What have you done to me, Hali?
Shaking my head, I rip my eyes from Rune’s chest.
He has his head cocked, and he’s studying me with a strange look in his eyes. Almost as if…
No. He couldn’t have known you were watching him step out of the gym this morning.
