I savor the sight, trying not to pant. I make sure not to deflect my stare, but rather I make it clear that I’m studying every single inch of him. I even notice the fraying of his shirt, which on most men would make me think they should mend it or buy a new one, but on him the imperfection only makes him all the more appealing. When that shirt drops to the floor, I watch it intently, and as the hem skims the ground, a small noise escapes my throat.

His eyes sweep to mine and our gazes lock. He turns, leans slightly forward as if considering picking up the shirt, then decides differently. “Ivy.” He says my name not as a question, not as a statement, not in surprise. It’s sensual, full of longing; it’s a sound I remember from him, from before, and one I could never forget.

I feel pummeled by his rugged good looks—God, he has a face that would melt any woman’s heart. His pale but intense hazel eyes, the sprinkling of stubble across his chin, the lushness of his lips, and the wave of his thick brown hair that always had me itching to run my fingers through it—all features any woman would pine for. I take a step in, letting the door slam against the slide bar behind me. Neither of us says a word. The burn of his stare has me longing to escape the intensity of the moment. I let my gaze slip but feel my lips part—and his do the same. I lower my lids and immediately notice the way his jeans sit so low on his hips, and a shiver runs down my spine. Then something more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen catches my attention. At first it looks like a tribal design running vertically down his right side, but as I narrow my eyes on it I can see it’s a straight line of black inked letters.

Gasping, I slowly cross the room. I stand in front of him, trembling. I touch my shaky fingers to his bare skin, to the R right at the apex of his rib cage. It’s warm beneath the pads of my fingers, and my body is electrified at the feel of his skin against mine. Xander looks down at my hand, and I peek up at him. His face is completely unreadable. It’s filled with an emotion I’ve never seen. But when he nearly loses his balance from the contact, I think he’s feeling what I’m feeling—euphoric. Shuffling his feet, he recovers quickly. His head remains bowed and his chest rises and falls rapidly as I carefully trace each one of the letters. Every letter is a work of art, forming the phrase—

Tears fall and sobs I can’t control escape me as I place my trembling finger on the tiny ivy leaf, the mark used instead of an accent to stress the E. It’s only then that his gaze falters. His eyes flutter closed when I touch him there. Then I drop my hand and his eyes open.