Chapter 98
The pants clung. In black leather, Colby’s indecently long legs stretched out for sinful miles. His shirt was hot pink and cut both too low and too high. It flirted with his nipples and exposed his hipbones, above the leather, and glowed under a vintage black velvet jacket, form-fitting, sleeves rolled up. Plus he had on some sort of glittery scarf-accessory, Jason’s brain—and other parts—observed: hanging silver and long and low and carelessly looped. It beckoned eyes along his form like an arrow.
And then there was the hair. Colby’s extremely dyed blond hair. Soblond, and recklessly shaggy. It framed his face like a portrait-decoration, gilt-edged and delicious. Eyeliner and mascara—and Nic Skye’s trademark two twinkling pasted-on silver stars over Colby’s left eye—gave him a wide-eyed magical look, quixotic and elfin and glimmering. The illusion and the shimmer flirted and tempted and begged for a rough devouring kiss.