Pure Torture

I nearly launched out of my own skin. The towel almost slipped from my grasp as I staggered back, hands flying to hold it tighter.

I turned toward the voice, and the moment my eyes found him, I forgot how to breathe.

He stood in the shadowed corner near the bookshelf—that damned dark corner that always seemed to drink more light than it should. He leaned there like he owned the place: arms folded across his chest, one boot crossed lazily over the other. 

He looked carved from shadow, dressed head-to-toe in his signature black: leather jacket, fitted pants, dark boots, and those unsettling gloves. 

The only color in him was danger.

And yet, even in this sinister appearance, his face was cruelly handsome. Aggravatingly sculpted. His beauty was the kind that left a mark, feeling like something you'd need permission to even admire.

My fingers clut