Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

Okay…so he’s not going to look at me. I guess that works. The brown blanket is gathered over his chest, where it looks like he’s got his arms folded beneath its layers. I scoot down a little, toward his hips, and push the blanket up, revealing black ski pants that, as reported, do not have a button or a zipper. They’re elastic, with a draw string.

Dear God, he’s so gorgeous that for a moment I can’t swallow. His right hip—actually, his left one, I guess—has a thick pink scar over the V part…like he recently got wounded somehow. But my eyes don’t linger there. They dart up and down his perfect, eight-pack abs, tracing his happy trail—all soft and dark—and getting hung up on a peek of pale gray: the elastic of his underwear peeking above the pants waist.

“I’ll just pull them down, and you can lift your hips?”

His jaw tenses once more as he nods, eyes still shut. I can see his nostrils flare again. As he blows a breath out, I straddle his legs, moving atop him with care. Then I wrap my hands around his pants on each side and tug. I have to shimmy to get them down, since they’re wet. Luca lifts his hips, and I try not to look down at him as I tug with more force. As I pull the pants down his muscled thighs, a soft sound comes from his throat. I refuse to look up. Not until I get these damn things off.

Oh my God. His boots are still on!

“Dammit,” I hiss. My eyes flicker to his. “I forgot to do your boots.”

I try not to look at his body—at his washboard abs or muscle-corded thighs or what is outlined through the damp, thin cotton boxer-briefs—as I crawl over his lower legs.

By the time I’m settled at his feet, his teeth are audibly chattering, and his chest is moving up and down as if he’s breathing hard.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, forcing my eyes to stay on his face. “I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He looks furious as his eyes open. “It’s my fault for falling through the fucking ice.”

His eyes close again, and I think he shifts his hips. I can see his bulky arms move again underneath the blanket.

You will not find him attractive, Elise.

God, his voice sounds just the same. Maybe half an octave deeper.

I push the ankle of one pants leg up, startled at how cold his tall, wool socks are. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t think about this sooner.”

His eyes crack open again, narrowing as his mouth thins. “Thought I told you don’t say sorry.”

He looks miserable as I unzip his boot at the side, and then untie the thick, black laces. I swallow and try to breathe more evenly. This is no big deal. Soon he’ll be in warm clothes. I can go.

I pull the boot off, shocked when water splashes onto the floor. “Wow,” I murmur, hurrying with his sock. I can feel his eyes on me as I start at the sock’s top, peeling it down. I catch a quick glimpse of his leg hair—darker and a little thicker than it was before. Then I’m pulling the sock off his freezing foot, revealing perfect arches that I used to tease him for; jealousy, he liked to say, since I’m flat-footed. Somehow, the thick sock gets hung up on the contour of his heel. When I yank it off, he makes a soft sound. I watch as he curls his toes, which look alarmingly pale. When I look up, he’s wincing.

“Is your foot okay?”

“Yeah.” He schools his features back into a poker face, and I make quick work of the other boot and sock. When I’m finished, I dry his feet with another blanket, wrapping it around his ankles before realizing his pants still have to come off.

Good grief, Elise.

“I’m not thinking sequentially.”

He lifts his head. “Mm?”

“Nothing.” I move so I’m straddling just one of his legs, taking care to keep my rear end well above it. “I’ll just pull these off now.” Before I do, though, I realize I should lay the bottle of hot water against his chest, or maybe nestle it at his side. Before it cools.

I move off his leg, carefully chaste, grab the bottle, and, because he’s still got his arms folded underneath the blanket, I lift it up at the side, down near his hip, thinking that I’ll nestle the warm bottle there—thereby avoiding touching his chest or abs.

When my fingers brush his side, though, his whole body flinches. I pull my hand back, looking at his face. His mouth is twisted downward. My heart hammers. “Did that hurt?”

“No,” he starts, as my hand brushes the spot. It’s that hard, ridged V-thing men have when they’re in good shape; I think I’ve heard it called an Adonis belt.