JAXON POVOoh-la-la," I muttered under my breath, my jaw instantly slacking as the glow of my phone screen lit up the pitch-black room.I sat upright against my headboard, every muscle in my torso tightening. The image on my screen was a masterclass in shadow and curve, a high-definition shot capturing a full, soft waist, the explicit arch of thick hips, and pale skin that looked softer than silk against dark shorts. No face. No background markers. Just raw, unfiltered, breathtaking confidence cut off right below the collarbone.My thumb lingered on the image before I caught myself and snapped out of it."Well, well, well," I whispered, a slow, dark grin pulling at the corner of my lips. "I guess the quiet poet has a filthy side."Just twenty-four hours ago, this anonymous texter had sent me a long, bleeding confession about watching home games from the top row of the stands, feeling invisible, and finding solace in how I played on the ice. At first, I’d assumed it was just another Cr
Última actualización : 2026-09-08 Leer más