Page 72 of My Best Years
For the love of all things holy.
God help me.
He’s wearing work clothes that are fit for manual labor. His long legs are clad in a light pair of jeans that look washed but have spatters of old stains on the denim. His white t-shirt is so worn that it’s practically see-through. Saliva pools in my mouth at the sight of his prominent pecs showing through the thin cotton. My eyes lower to a hole in his shirt, revealing a sliver of tan skin above his rib cage.
I swear he wore that shirt just to taunt me.
When my gaze roams up his muscular arms to his neck, Ifind him staring back at me with the exact same expression. A jet black curl rests against his forehead, glistening with sweat as he gazes at me like he’s speechless.
Fuck.
The way he looks right now… This image of him will forever be the star of my darkest fantasies. I didn’t know that men in worn-out clothes and damp hair were my thing until now.
I’m distracted from my thoughts when I hear his velvety voice mutter my name.
“Birdie Wren,” he grits out, gravel lacing his tone. “Are you trying to fucking kill me?”
My brows pinch together in confusion as he flexes his jaw and rakes his sapphire gaze down my body. He chews on his bottom lip before pushing a trembling hand through his thick curls.
“Christ, Birdie,” he grunts. “You’re putting me through hell before I even step inside your apartment.”
His gaze lands on my chest and freezes there. “I mean…Fuck.” A pained expression fills the lines of his face.
I follow his gaze, realizing that I never put a shirt on. But even if I did remember, it’s so fucking hot in here that adding another layer would be torture.
So here I am, standing in front of Callum Pierce in my sports bra and skin-tight spandex shorts. I might as well be in my bra and underwear.
I quickly cross my arms over my chest, attempting to hide the way my nipples poke through the neon fabric.
“Shit,” I stammer. “I…I’m sorry, I meant to put a shirt on before you got here. It’s just so hot in here–”
He cuts me off by stepping inside my apartment and shutting the door behind him. His fiery gaze never leaves my body as he stalks towardme.
God, I hate how much I crave the feral look on his face right now. His fingers flex at his sides like it’s taking all his self-control not to touch my exposed skin.
“You’re not changing,” he shakes his head. “And you have nothing to apologize for. It’s fucking boiling in here.”
“I know, but…” I trail off, staring down at my half-naked body
“You look good, Birdie,” he admits in a deep tone that has me clenching my thighs together. “But it would be a cold day in hell before I wouldn’t think you were the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
I swallow thickly as my eyes bounce between his.
“I could go on and on about how perfect I think you are,” he rasps. “But I know that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to rescue you from Satan‘s asshole.”
A chuckle bubbles up my throat, and a smile breaks across his face.
“Please do,” I laugh. “Because it’s not a pleasant place to be.”
“Hell isn’t supposed to be pleasant, Birdie.”
He runs his fingers through his dark hair and steps further into my apartment. He slides a bag down his arm, which I assume carries his tools.
I don’t know where my confidence comes from, but I stop him from going any further by placing my hand in the middle of his hard chest. Fuck, it feels so good to touch him.
A current of electricity swims through my veins as the pads of my fingers connect with his cotton shirt. The material is so thin that I can feel the heat of his body radiating against my skin. I should move my hand, but instead, my fingers linger and stretch against his breastbone.
I’ve missed his familiar warmth too much. I’ve yearned for it for too long.