Red Hot Desire
Red-Hot Desire Nyomi Damn. Kenji was nude and sprawled across the page like a fallen god—every inch of him captured in stark charcoal with a level of detail that made my throat tighten. Mami had drawn him sleeping. His head was turned slightly to the side, resting against what looked like a pillow, dark hair spilling across his forehead in messy strands. His eyes were closed, lashes fanning against his cheekbones. His lips were parted just enough to suggest breath—soft, unguarded, vulnerable in a way I'd never seen him in waking life. She'd caught him defenseless. And she'd worshipped every inch of that defenselessness. The heavy muscle of his shoulders anchored the composition, broad and powerful even in rest. She'd traced the slope of them down to that narrow waist with obsessive precision—every ridge of muscle, every shadow between his ribs rendered in loving detail. His abdomen was a study in contrasts: hard planes softened by sleep, the ridged terrain of his...