Chapter 9
Bond opened the door to an excited Rory that evening. The temperature had dropped to thirty-five degrees, and for a moment, Bond couldn’t move for the feelings crowding his chest and c**k at the sight of him. Rory stood there in black slacks and what Bond knew was a handmade Irish whaling sweater in black. The woolen cable knit’s crew neck intensified the Irish beauty of his luminous skin and emerald eyes. His hair was loose, and Bond ached to touch its silken fall.
“Going to ask me in, Navy? Or am I going to stand out here as a target?” he teased.
“Sorry.” He stepped back.
To his surprise, Rory hugged him as soon as the door was locked and the alarm reset. It was an exuberant, happy, all-out hug. He smelled of pine and the icy hint of coming snow, and his sweater felt cold a
