Page 59 of Ruthless Enforcer

"You planning to stay out here until you freeze, or is this some kind of artistic suffering I'm not cultured enough to understand?"

My eyes snap open.

Gabriel stands at the edge of the deck, silhouetted against the light spilling from the house. He's barefoot, shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants that do absolutely nothing to conceal the fact that he’s built like something Michelangelo would have wept over.

I don't move or cover myself. The water is opaque enough with steam and motion that he can't see anything below my collarbones, but we both know I'm naked. "I needed to think."

"How’s that going for you?"

"It's very effective."

His mouth curves into that wicked, dimpled grin. "Did you forget to think about your swimsuit, Duchess?"

I arch my brow. "I don't have one."

He laughs, low and dark and absolutely lethal. "You're going to be the death of me."

I want to be his life.

He moves closer, and I watch him with the same focus I bring to a canvas. The ink on his ribs and shoulder is stark against his skin, the lines clean and deliberate. His body is a study in controlled violence: lean muscle, old scars, the kind of physical confidence that comes from knowing exactly what he's capable of.

He stops at the edge of the tub.

"You should go back inside," he says.

"I was here first.” I meet his eyes without flinching. "You're the one who came outside."

“I wanted to soak.”

I shrug. “What’s stopping you?”

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then he strips off the sweatpants.

My mouth falls open for a second before I wipe the expression from my face. But I don’t look away—there’s no way I’d miss this. He's wearing black boxer briefs underneath, and when he steps into the water, the fabric clings immediately, outlining every inch of him with brutal, unambiguous clarity.

He's hard.

I've never been close enough to a man to see the shape of an erection through wet fabric, the way it strains against the material, thick and unmistakable and⁠—

"Eyes up here, Duchess."

My gaze snaps to his face.

He's grinning, but there’s a subtext that’s anything but amused—a dark, hungry warning that says he knows what I was looking at and what it did to me.

I clear my throat. "I wasn't⁠—"

"Oh, yes, you were."

Heat floods my cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the temperature of the water. "You're the one who’s like”—I wave toward his lap—“that.”

His grin turns up a notch. "You're the one who caused that."

I blink. “I did?”

“Duchess, you’re naked.”

I shrug. "I told you I don't have a swimsuit."