Paloma Perez.
"Hey."
An enormous hand surrounds my waist. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he smells like him but I do know better. Therefore, I know that it is him. Elijah Vega.
His voice drops again. “Hey.”
Too gangster and utterly masculine. Is this my guilty pleasure? Finding comfort in his voice when I just declared I’d never see him as attractive. It’s all because of yesterday. Because of what he made me feel. The burn in his groan. The way it matched me. Too perfect. Too scarily perfect.
I turn to the left side of my bed and I see him lying there. His head is tipped against my pillow. His arms, sun-warmed, tattooed—rest under his head. And his thigh—oh Maker, his thigh presses into mine with this impossible, possessive gravitas, and I—
Wait. Am I naked?
Elijah punishes me wi
