Then he pulls the shirt off and stands there with it dangling from one hand as I struggle to draw another breath. The man is art. Hot-as-fuck, tattooed, muscular art. Had I known what he looked like under his tailored Armani suits, I might have been nicer to him sooner. I’m lucky I wasn’t standing up for this, because I’d definitely have melted into a puddle at his feet. “Are you drooling?” he says, his smile growing wider.
