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Not that I’m too upset about that last one. He’s hooked up to saline, vitamins, antibiotics, and a paralytic. But definitely no pain killers. And I imagine having your face melted and then both hands hacked off with Damiano’s fancy Japanese knives probably doesn’t feel that great.

The door to the cottage opens and shuts, its old hinges creaking. I glance up when Damiano stops in the front entryway just outside the living room.

Shit.

My pulse jumps, and heat slithers through my core.

His hair is damp and his black running shirt is pasted to his chest and stomach, outlining every obnoxiously defined ridge underneath. A light sheen of sweat glistens across his throat and forearms, and his shorts…

I mean, come on.

Okay, maybe it’s just that I’ve been vividly and dare I say fondly remembering every gorgeous detail of Damiano’s cock all day. But I swear, those sweat-slicked shorts are clearly outlining a very thick, heavy-looking bulge.

I really need to get laid.

Then, because apparently God has decided to test me tonight, Damiano reaches behind his neck, grabs the collar of his shirt, and pulls it off.

“How was your day?”

I swallow the heat from my face when I realize he’s talking to me.

“Fine. How was your run?”

“Good,” he nods, kicking off his running shoes and socks and setting his shirt on the floor next to them. Then he walks into the living room and drops into a chair across from the couch I’m sitting on.

The air feels…thick? Heated? I can smell him, a mix of sweat and man blending with his usual sage and cedar scent, and fuck, is it doing things to me.

He pulls out his phone and starts to lazily scroll, shirtless, tanned skin glistening, muscles twitching, thighs spread, shorts tight against that bulge.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Heat coils inside me as my eyes drag over his chiseled chest, grooved abs, and the dark trail disappearing into the waistband of his running shorts.

This is fucking ridiculous.

We have already established that we are extremely sexually compatible. Dangerously so.

And yet somehow we’ve spent the last several days acting like two coworkers forced to share an Airbnb after HR accidentally forgot to book separate rooms.

Fuck this.

I close my book. Damiano's still scrolling.

Looking right at him, I grab the hem of my t-shirt and pull it over my head.

Nothing.

I toss it to the floor, followed by my bra.

Still nothing.

I lift my legs, thighs together and toes pointed at the ceiling, and hook my thumbs into my sleep shorts and slide them down before kicking them away.

Still. Fucking. Nothing.

I’m seeing red by the time I peel my panties off, hook them over my thumb and fling them like a rubber band at my husband, where they land in his lap.

Damiano stops scrolling.