Want to see Elita’s first glimpse of Pryor Bernaux? 😉
Blood covered her fingers when she brought her hand back around.
Gravel crunched and she looked up, nearly swallowing her tongue when she saw the man headed her way. Long, lean and shirtless, sweat glistened on one of those ripped abdomens she’d only really seen in movies. Colorful tattoos started on the right side of his chest, cupped his shoulder and wrapped his muscled right arm. Chestnut hair, short and spiked, showed blonde highlights in the glaring sun. He wore small, dark sunglasses.
“Bienvenue chez nous.”
His voice, deep and melodious, sent the oddest shiver down her spine. Then she focused on his words. He’d said welcome home. Like she lived here, which was just weird. Or maybe it was welcome to our home… she wasn’t sure which. Surprise lifted her eyebrows. He was most definitely under forty—possibly younger than her—so the French was a shocker. The older people around here always peppered their speech with French, but the younger generation had mostly dropped the habit.
She held her breath. Watched the ripple of muscle in his jean-clad thighs as he moved with a lazy grace that stole the moisture from her mouth.
This man was walking, talking, bad boy sex and he strolled toward her with a crooked grin that let her know he already had corruption in mind.