Shit,” I curse. “You scared me.”
“Sorry. And ditto.” He’s sitting at the table, long legs resting on the chair beside him, a sketchpad in his lap.
Oh, and he’s shirtless.
As in, not wearing a shirt.
I can’t even.
I wrestle my gaze off his bare chest, but it’s too late. Every detail has already been branded in my brain. The full-sleeve tats covering his arms. The black swirl of ink that stretches along his collarbone and stops just above his heavy pecs. His abs are so chiseled it looks like someone drew them on with a contouring brush. Like Hunter, he’s all muscle and no fat, but while Hunter’s chest triggered appreciation and some tingles, Fitz unleashes a flurry of shivers and a tight clench of need.