His five o’ clock shadow was in full force tonight, maybe more like a six, but even his nearly black attire couldn’t match the darkness of his eyes. Beneath the vest, he wore a black button-down, the sleeves rolled casually up to his elbows. Charlie Hunnam, sinful Tom Hardy, sinful. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous. His bracketing arms tensed, and Lizzie allowed her gaze to slowly climb the smart, gray vest he wore. Whether it was the Cosmo or the glass of wine she’d had before he’d arrived, her tongue felt loose and her thoughts a little sluggish, and so it came as a bit of a surprise when she saw her fingers hook around the belt loops of his pants. Or maybe it was that her dress, at least five years old, was snug around. Gage’s proximity made it hard for Lizzie to breathe.
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