I looked at his body, gulping really hard. He looked so good. He looked so fucking good shirtless.
The kitchen light spilled over him like it had been paid to highlight every detail the broad span of his shoulders, the defined ridges of his chest rising and falling with slow breaths, the faint trail of dark hair leading down to that sharp V disappearing beneath the waistband of his gray sweatpants. The fabric hung low on his hips clinging just enough to outline the thick shape of him even at rest. My throat went dry. My pulse kicked hard against my ribs.
"I thought Chow Chow had somehow made her way into the house," he said, voice low and amused, but I wasn't listening.
I couldn't listen when my eyes were fixed on his shirtless chest. He was wearing sweatpants and they looked so good with the way they hung from his waist. One wrong move and they'd slip lower. The thought sent a rush of heat straight between my legs.
