Melanie

I'm wholly unprepared for the person who emerges from the bathroom, steam billowing out in tendrils that cling to his already glistening skin. He obviously missed a few spots when he dried off. Weston isn't wearing a shirt, and he's got a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants that precariously hover on his hips, showcasing the chiseled lines carved by years of hard labor. My heart skips a beat, my tongue is suddenly sticky against the roof of my mouth as my eyes ...