His eyes stayed locked on her, unmoving.
There she was—lying on his very own bed, as real as the sheets beneath her.
His lips parted slightly, breath catching in uneven bursts as disbelief wrapped around him like a slow, rising tide.
"Gina... Gina is in my room."
His stare didn't waver. He didn't blink. Didn't move.
It had to be a lie.
His hand drifted down to his arm, and with a shaky grip, he pinched his skin.
"Shit."
He recoiled slightly. The pain was real. And yet... she was still there.
Her dark skin glowed beneath the dim light.
She lay there, wrapped in nothing but a soft white t-shirt—thin, light, and barely long enough to cover the swell of her hips.
The fabric clung to her like a second skin, molding itself around the full, perfect curves of her breasts. Each breath she took made the shirt rise and fall gently, emphasizing the roundness that pressed against the cloth- the supple shape of her marvelous breasts.
