He starts unbuttoning his shirt, each movement sharp, unbothered, sure.
My breath catches because—God help me—I can’t stop staring.
He’s absolutely gorgeous.
Golden skin stretched over hard muscle, broad chest, tight abs—all of it pure power and brutal elegance.
I’ve seen beautiful men before.
I’ve even slept with one or two.
But no one has ever made my pulse race like this.
Like him.
He tosses the shirt aside.
I’m still reeling from his earlier actions.
“Fuck, Cece, those look uncomfortable,” he growled, dragging my bikini bottoms down with one rough tug.
I try to protest to this blatant display of testosterone overload, I really do—but then I feel his fingers sliding between my thighs, parting me, stroking through the wet heat there like he owns it.
“Say you’ll ask me before you swim,” he murmurs.
His thumb brushes that perfect spot, and I almost break.
Almost.
“No,” I whisper, trembling.
His eyes spark like I’ve struck a match.
Instead of retreating, he pulls his hand away, and I whimper—actually whimper—at the loss.
But when, he unzipped his pants. Well, that’s when everything inside me stilled.
Atlas is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen, and seeing him with his hand on his cock—well I simply stop breathing.
He’s big. Really big.
Thick, veined, hard, already leaking at the tip.
“Fuck, that’s so hot,” I whisper without thinking.
“Do you like what you see, kardhoúla?” he asks, voice like velvet over steel.
“Atlas, please,” I moan.
I’m so turned on I’m dripping, making a mess of the bedspread beneath me.
My hands drift, almost without permission, one over my breast, the other down toward the ache that’s burning brighter with every second.
“Freeze,” he orders. “Hands above your head. Or this stops.”
I bite my lip. “No. Don’t stop. I want to watch you touch yourself.”
His growl is pure sin.
