He looks like he belongs on a runway in Milan, showcasing attire for bad boys because that’s what he is. It’s not possible that someone is this good looking, but standing before me is living proof that perfection exists. But regardless of the fact that I’m staring at what could quite possibly be Chris Hemsworth’s doppelgänger, I pull back my shoulders and quash down the need to lick his face.
“Not that I’m unhappy, but given the fact I’m still cleaning the skid marks you left in your haste to flee my apartment, what are you doing here?” His voice is deep, hoarse, like he just woke up, leaving me with obscene images which make my girly parts sing.
This needs to stop. Now. “Gee, a touch dramatic, don’t you think? I left because I had better things to do, like right now, so stop wasting my
