PAIGE
The air vanished from my lungs.
He wasn't just a man standing in a doorway; he was a damn masterpiece, and every arrogant, infuriating inch of him knew it.
The towel slung low on his hips was a pathetic barrier against the sheer, raw masculinity radiating from him.
My eyes, traitors that they were, drank him in. Water slicked his dark hair back, emphasizing the sharp, ruthless cut of his jaw and the perfect, arrogant angle of his cheekbones.
Droplets of water traced a slow, maddening path down the corded strength of his neck, over the defined planes of his chest, and down the rigid lines of his abdomen that looked like they'd been carved from stone.
A faint, silvery scar cut a thin line across his lower ribs—a flaw in the perfection that somehow made him more real, more dangerous.
His shoulders were broad, his arms powerful without being bulky, every muscle defined and speaking of a strength that was both physical and utterly controlled.
