Page 57 of The Bad Boy Rule

Holy. Shit.

My wildest, horniest imagination could haveneverconjured up an accurate representation of what this man actually looks like shirtless.

He looks like he must have been carved from stone by the greatest sculptor to have ever lived, each of the muscles in his chest sharp and defined, leading down to rows upon rows of chiseled abs. I watch a bead of sweat travel down the hollow space between his pecs, tracing along each muscle in a languid pace that makes me throb…everywhere.

I’ve gotten a glimpse of those abs before on the ice, but it’s nothing compared to seeing the whole picture.

God… he’s beautiful. Truly, there’s no other word for it.

No other way to describe it. No wonder his ego’s this big.

His body was built for hockey. Strong, unyielding, powerful. Conditioned to take hits.

It’s the first time that I’ve seen the amount of ink covering him. It doesn’t just stop at the full sleeve on his arm, the top of his hand. It travels in pieces along his chest, along the muscles on his obliques.

“My eyes are up here, Golden Girl,” he rasps darkly, the low, seductive sound settling around me.

My gaze whips to his, cataloging the slow, wolfish curve of his lip, and I clear my throat. “Uh… it’s your turn.”

“Indeed it is.”

Grasping the front of my shirt, I attempt to fan myself with the already damp fabric, and it doesn’t do much at all, but it’s better than nothing.

I’m never going to take air-conditioning for granted ever again.

If we ever make it out of this elevator.

“Never have I ever…” Saint trails off. “Been in a relationship.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Of course he’s never been in a relationship. Commitment probably gives him hives.

Instead of taking my shirt off, I kick off my tennis shoes. “There.”

“Doshoescount as a piece of clothing?” he asks.

I shrug. “Not sure, but unless you’ve got a stripnever have I ever‘official’ rule book handy… I guess we’re going with it.”

He laughs, eyes glinting with amusement. “Fair. Alright, your turn.”

I take a second to think carefully about the next one, and then suddenly, it hits me.

“Never have I ever… failed a class.”

He doesn’t take anything off, his brow quirking. “3.5 GPA, Golden Girl.”

“Wow. You can read?”

“Remember when I told you I was more than just incredibly good looks and a big dick? Wasn’t lying.Bigbrain too.” His dark brows waggle, and I toss my head back, a throaty laugh escaping of its own accord. “Never have I ever… figure skated.”

My mouth hangs open. “That’s cheating.”

His shoulder lifts. “I haven’t. I play hockey. Now… do you have that rule book?”

He’s… just trying to get me to take off my clothes. He knew exactly what he was doing by choosing that, of all things.

I can feel my fingers trembling as I reach for the hem of my T-shirt and slowly lift it over my head, my earlier confidence nowhere to be seen when I need it the most.

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