Ariel Beckham.
My eyes flutter open, slowly adjusting to the light streaming through the room. I’ve never slept so deeply before. As I shift slightly, I catch sight of him—the first man who’s ever shown me what intimacy is supposed to feel like. Ramirez stands by the large window, shirtless, in nothing but white briefs, the wind ruffles his hair ever so slightly. A phone is pressed to his ear, and I can’t help but drink in the sight of him—tall, broad, muscles so defined they look like they could toss me around this room like a doll. His tanned skin is perfect as gold, a canvas for dark tattoos, each more bizarre and captivating than the last.
For what seems to be the first time, his hair is in a scattered pony. It’s rarely scattered.
He turns, catching me watching him.
Ramirez eyes
