Fucking Heathcliff Kerrigan.
Though everyone called him Heath for short. And he alone was the bane of my existence. Over six feet tall, he was sex on legs. With a hand in his pocket, the other ran through his shaggy hair, hair that was cropped close on the sides, but was long on top—the best of both worlds. The slick strands matched the color of his eyes, when not covered in gel. He pushed those dark strands aside, revealing his eyes; chocolate saucers that pulled you into their depths without even trying. A short beard covered a face so perfectly sculpted that it should be a crime. He wore a button-up shirt, unbuttoned on top, exposing just enough chest to make any hot blooded woman’s fingers itch. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his muscled forearms, and then his jeans... Jeans that looked like they were tailored specifically for him. And yes, I wanted to see what he had packing underneath his well-fit clothes and I hated myself for it.
“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. I thought that was you sitting over here.” I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the throb between my legs that had started the minute I saw him. Such a waste of man, sexy voice with a body to match, but the brain of an egomaniac. He was hot and he knew it. “All alone on a Friday night or you still pining away for me?”
“Aren’t you sweet?” I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with him—with those eyes that screamed ‘Fuck me’—and assumed he caught my sarcastic tone. “Believe it or not, I’m not pining. Pining would mean that I cared in the first place, Heath.”
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