A hand. It’s big and strong and I shouldn’t be able to recognize who it belongs to so easily. Warmth brushes my bare back, a wave of adrenaline chasing after it. I twist around to find Angelo Visconti so close I can probably guess the thread count of his crisp, white shirt. I shift my gaze higher, meeting his eyes. He slips a cigarette between his lips and inhales. Then he blows.
Hot lmaoooo
