Bad Boy Blues (St. Mary’s Rebels, #0)

by Saffron A. Kent

Then the shower’s turned off and a shadow falls across the room – as crazy as that sounds – and I know he’s out. He stands at the threshold of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his slim but muscular hips, and he’s drying his wet, extremely wet, hair with another one. His eyes are trained on me but he doesn’t look surprised to see me. I might be losing my touch there. I might also be losing my mind and all my senses because all I can do right now is stare at him. Stare at his gorgeous cut body. I’m not one of those girls who go all crazy over a good physique. Nope. I mean, I enjoy it but I don’t make it my wallpaper. But I’d make him my wallpaper and I wouldn’t even be ashamed of it. Take his neck, for example. It’s something so innocent and mundane, but not on him. On him, neck takes on another meaning. Long, graceful, tendons rippling, veins standing taut. There are drops sliding down and I’d lick all of them, snaking down his prominent, beautifully sculpted collarbones, his chest. Oh God, one goes to his tight, dark nipple. And the ridges of his abs. Six. I count like an idiot. He has a six pack and that V. Now I know why everyone’s so crazy about the V. I get it. It’s all about where that V leads to. It’s about… “My face is up here.”