Masterson

ELIZABETH

ROMAN IS JUST A MAN. Flesh. Bones. Beauty. That's the mantra I've been repeating to myself in order to mentally prepare for entering his building. For daring to be alone with him in his uber-masculine presence. You would imagine that I could control my internal systems when I am in front of this man, but my circulatory system has a mind of it's own.

My blood is racing.

My pulse pounding.

And there's a scary ass Alaskan Malamute named Mr. Tibbs staring me down like I'm a piece of chicken (and not in the good way!), while I am sitting in Roman's living room with my mouth closed, my knees shut, and my eyes completely mesmerized by his inked back. This is not the first time that I have seen him without a shirt on, but to say that Roman's body is a feast for the eyes is an understatement. I love looking at him every single time. He's like a Christmas present that has been carefully unwrapped for my viewing pleasure. A treat for the eyes.

Roman was distracted with something when he answered the door in nothing but a pair of snug fitting, worn jeans that hung low on his waist and a cell phone in his hand. That's probably why he didn't notice how I practically lost my breath, when I took a look at how his chiseled pecs flexed as he motioned for me to come in.

But there's something about a man's back, especially this man's back. A broad, strong one with sloped shoulders that looks and probably feels as if it could carry the weight of the world across it. Magnificently adorned with an intricate and patterned tattoo that covers the entire span of it. I've never seen anything like it in my life, and it is on full display as he moves his way around his professionally designed stainless steel kitchen, brewing some sort of latte concoction. Something with chocolate, espresso, milk and a dash of rum or some sort of alcohol. Something which is probably going to taste just as delicious as he looks.

From what I know about Roman so far, I realize that with certain things, he goes about them with a great deal of calculation. He wouldn't be making this drink if he hadn't perfected the recipe. He wouldn't have asked me come here if he didn't have a very specific reason, and it's certainly not to take a look at his computer.

Like I told myself earlier, this is a really bad idea. I'm not sure why I still decided to come here. I ended up having a good time chatting with Jagger earlier at Java. It was easy. He doesn't intimidate me the way Roman does. He doesn't challenge every frackin' thing I say the way that Roman does. Our conversation wasn't filled with uncomfortable sexual tension or him dragging me to the back and shoving his fingers in my vagina.

We talked about his upcoming swim trials, my app, his little sister, and my cat back home. I only asked him one thing about Ethan, even though I promised Sloan I wouldn't. I just couldn't help it. Although it's obvious that we are definitely done, I'll always be curious about just how deep Ethan was into drugs and exactly what kind of trouble he brought upon my doorstep that night. I also wanted to get an idea of just how completely far my head was buried underneath the sand.

"I don't know much, Elizabeth. I just know that he's been doing drugs and was selling drugs on campus for at least a year. His parents knew about it, at least about the using, but they didn't want to wreck his swimming eligibility by putting him in rehab in the middle of the season."

"Did you know about any of this before the assault at my place, Jagger?"

He sighed. "I'm not going to lie to you. I knew a little about what Ethan was into. Everybody did, but I had no idea he was involved with dealers like that."

When I thought back to certain conversations between Ethan and I, certain nights out, there were definitely red flags. Every time I thought something was off between us, it was probably because he was high, and I just didn't know what being high looked like. I didn't even start really drinking wine until well after I turned twenty-one.