Matteo stepped out.
Bare-chested.
A white towel was wrapped low around his waist, hanging dangerously on his hips. Droplets of water still clung to his broad shoulders and the defined ridges of his abdomen, slowly trailing down his skin. His dark hair was damp and tousled, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look far too devastating for someone who had just stood in a freezing downpour for hours.
My mouth went dry. I gulped.
The mate bond — that treacherous, long-dormant thing — surged violently between us. Filthy, vivid images slammed into my mind without warning: his hands gripping my thighs, that same bare chest pressed against mine, his mouth on my neck while he growled my name, the way he used to take me apart so thoroughly I forgot everything except him…
Where the
