I freeze, my eyes going saucer wide as I take in the half-naked body sprawled across our black leather couch. A fluffy white throw separates his lower half from his sun-kissed torso and an image of my own body cocooned in that very same snowy blanket on many a Sunday flashes across my mind’s eye.

What the fuck is he doing here?

I blame sleep deprivation for my eyes’ betrayal as they begin tracing the grooves of his abs. I find my mouth watering, much to my horror, as I reach the firm outline of his pecs and their small, dusky center points. I watch fascinated as the prominent ridge of his collarbone flutters with his soft, sleep-laden breaths. A long, sinewy arm bends back in a triangle behind his head, and my eyes hone in on the dark curls of his underarms.

Armpits shouldn’t be that sexy, I think warily, disgusted with myself but unable to look away, before dragging my attention to his face. His light pink mouth puffs out every so lightly with each exhale, offering me a teasing wink of the dark cavern beneath. Thick caramel lashes cast shadows across the peaks of his cheeks—cheeks that were once dusted in freckles but have cleared up with age and sunlight. The clean shave I noticed last night—albeit, begrudgingly—has bloomed into a shadow of tawny stubble peppered across the slackened edges of his jaw.

God, what would that feel like on my tongue?

I slam a steel trap down on that visual, trying desperately to cast it away before it can make a home there.

But it’s too late. I’m too late.

I am frozen. Rooted to the spot by the utter disgust I have with myself right now for the simple, confusing fact that I’m not disgusted at all by what I’m seeing. I take in his messy blond hair, dark in the waning shadows of night. A piece falls over the slope of his cheek and hangs over his eye. My fingers flex with the need to brush it away, run it between my fingers. See if it’s as smooth as it looks.

I also kind of want to yank it right out of his fucking stupid, perfect head.

Irritated with my thoughts—with his unwelcome presence—I force my focus to his bare feet. If there’s anything that should sufficiently sour what little warmth is left flooding my veins as I take in this raw display of masculinity sprawled naked across my couch, it’s feet.

But when I take in the elongated arch of his foot and the visible veins crawling up his ankles under his skin, I come to the decision that Will Foster must either be hiding a set of horns beneath that tousled mass of hair or have a ridiculously tiny dick. Because no one is this goddamn perfect. No one.

No man. No woman. No one.