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... eyes followed the movements of my own hands, entranced by the slope of his collarbone, the slight twitch of his abdomen, and the way the water clung to his lashes like tiny crystals.

His chest rose and fell—steadily, but deeper now.

"You’re staring," he murmured.

"I’m inspecting," I whispered.

He chuckled low. "Should I flex?"

"Please don’t."

He flexed anyway. I dropped the sponge.

"You’re a bully," I groaned, reaching to pick it up.

< ...

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