Until I Wrote Him
Roman’s skin was bronzed, glistening slightly from some kind of pre-dive sheen or sweat or whatever the hell billionaires use to make themselves look like they belong on magazine covers.
His hips were thrust slightly forward, legs spread in that annoying, infuriatingly perfect way that made every human instinct in me want to keel over, and his abs… oh God, his abs… a grid of perfection that I knew was illegal in at least three countries.
But it wasn’t just his body.
He was holding a spear.
A spear.
Yes. A spear.
The kind that made you think: he might be hunting a mythical sea creature, or defending the yacht from underwater assassins, or maybe just practicing some secret billionaire hobby I