Like the kind of man who owns exactly four pairs of pants and doesn’t give a single shit about what anyone thinks of them.
And the way his fingers grip the denim?
Capable.
That’s the word.
Like they could pin you to a wall.
Unhook your bra without looking.
Make you beg.
He lifts his eyes.
And looks straight at me.
Not a glance. Not a once-over.
A study.
Like I’m a puzzle.
Like he’s already halfway through solving me.
He doesn’t look away.
My stomach does a little flip.
Not the fluttery kind.
The oh-no-I’m-in-trouble kind.
My thighs press together.
Traitors.
Because he’s hot, and focused, and still watching.
Naturally, I start cataloging.
Clothes: practical. Fit-focused. Low vanity. Maybe ex-military. Or a cop.
Posture: alert. Balanced. Ready to move. Doesn’t slouch. Definitely strong.
Shoes: boots. Good leather. Broken-in. He’s been places.
Face: Strong jaw. Needs a shave. Lips that look like they’d feel good on my throat.
Wait, focus.
Expression: neutral, bordering on serious. But not cold.
Build: Thick.
Thick like…
Okay I’m distracted. His shoulders are illegal.
