Steamy Chronicles collections
She eyed the staff through the window—another one, this time Japanese, his muscled arms flexing as he raked the sand.
The family scattered, each drawn to their own distractions—none of them blind to the feast of male perfection surrounding them.
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The gym was cavernous, empty except for the clank of plates and the hum of AC. Rico stood by the squat rack, his bare torso slick with sweat, every muscle carved like dark marble.
He was a monster—six-five at least, with shoulders that stretched the seams of possibility.
His black hair curled damp against his neck, framing a face all sharp angles and cocky grins.