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I’m in danger here. Serious, imminent danger of being charmed senseless by a handsome artist who arouses in me the dueling urges to run away screaming or strip naked and fling myself onto his torso and cling there like a crab.
I exhale in a noisy rush. “Honestly? I don’t know if a woman has ever been more bothered by a man in the whole of human history.”
“Just breathe,” he says quietly, his mouth close to my ear. “Just feel me and breathe.” Seven more beautiful words have never been spoken.
“Whatever bad thing happened to you, it hasn’t made you less beautiful. There’s beauty in darkness, too. It just takes a different kind of vision to see it.”
“It’s like you said, Olivia. Life’s too short to mince words. Our existence is measured in minutes. Seconds. Heartbeats. Time is the most valuable commodity we have, because it can never be replenished. Once it’s gone…it’s gone forever. And so are we.”
He’s. Fucking. Perfect.
His chest is a masterpiece. His abs could make angels weep. This guy makes Michelangelo’s David look like something a first-semester art student at a community college glued together out of old newspapers and cat turds.
Then, very deliberately, still staring into my eyes, he bites me between the legs. I suck in a hard breath, though it doesn’t hurt. It’s just the sheer masculine sexuality of it, the dominance, the way it says this is mine and I want to eat it.
