Note to self: Kross is not a morning person. Or a polite person. Or a human person, maybe.
My binder was already tightening around my chest uncomfortably, and as I waited for my clothes to dry a little more, Kross emerged from the bathroom like he was starring in some cursed shampoo commercial.
And by emerged, I mean strutted.
The towel was slung carelessly over one shoulder like a sash, but the real problem? His low-slung towel barely clung to his hips, just enough to show off that ridiculous V-line leading into a place I refused to mentally acknowledge.
Holy Alpha gods.
He was built. Like, broad-shouldered, tight-abs, sun-kissed muscle definition kind of built. He looked like one of those fantasy warrior statues brought to life, except somehow even ruder.
His reflection filled the
