Zahara
“Shut the f**k up.”
My eyelids crack open. I’m a fairly light sleeper and positive that I heard something close by. The room is dark, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the unlit space. Once I do, the figure sitting near my desk comes into focus.
Massimo.
The silver beam streaming through the opening in the curtains creates an interplay of light and shadow over his impeccably sculpted, shirtless torso. Is this a dream?
His face is tilted up toward the ceiling, however, his eyes appear to be closed and a grimace is marring his flawless features. I don’t dare move an inch, pretending that I’m still asleep, while my eyes rove up and down his rapidly rising chest. He’s gripping the armrest of the chair with his left hand so hard, I can see the outline of the corded musc
