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Summary
His accent rolled over every word like aged Italian wine—rich, slow, and intoxicating in all the worst ways. It settled somewhere deep beneath Isaac’s ribs, sending his heart into a frantic, uneven rhythm that he couldn’t seem to steady no matter how hard he tried. It was infuriating how easily the man affected him. Heat pooled low in his stomach, betraying him all over again. He could feel himself growing harder by the second, the dampness only making him painfully aware of just how little control he had left. The humiliation of it settled hot beneath his skin. At this rate, by the end of the night, there’d be a damn puddle beneath him.
Pathetic.