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"Oh my God, are you okay?" I am not okay. The barista is leaning over the counter, eyes huge. My knees are bleeding, my dignity is in tatters on the pavement, and approximately half of Brooklyn is currently filming my lace underwear for posterity. Then something happens. A shadow falls over me. Wide. Solid. Immovable. A man steps directly between me and the crowd. From the knees down I’m half naked on a Brooklyn sidewalk, and somehow the most embarrassing part is that my brain immediately registers one extremely inappropriate thought: Who is he? He doesn't rush. He doesn't scramble. He just moves, with the kind of unhurried, absolute authority that makes everyone around him instinctively go still. He's huge. Not just tall, though he is extremely tall. He's built like something architectural. His suit, dark and clearly expensive, does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that underneath it there is a body that that makes responsible women lose their minds. Not young-guy attractive either. Dangerous older-man attractive. He stands with his back to me, facing the crowd, and he says nothing for a moment. Just looks at them. One by one, the phones come down. Not reluctantly. Instantly. Like he didn't ask. Like he ordered. "Eyes." His voice is quiet. Low. The kind of low that doesn't need volume to carry weight. There is an accent underneath it, something European that I can't quite place, and something else I absolutely can place, which is authority so complete it borders on frightening. "Off. Her." That's it. That's all he says. The crowd doesn't just look away. They actually drift back. A little shuffle of collective retreat, like a tide going out. I stare at the broad expanse of his back, at the way his shoulders fill that jacket, and I think: who is this man, and why does my heart feel like it's trying to escape my chest? And why does my brain keep noticing his shoulders while I'm half naked on the sidewalk? He turns around, and I get my first real look at his face. Oh no. Oh, this is not fair. Salt-and-pepper hair, thick and slightly tousled, like he ran a hand through it on his way out the door and it only got more attractive for it. A jaw that could cut glass, circled by a neat, short beard that is somehow both polished and rugged at once. And eyes. Blue. Not a soft blue. Not a gentle, friendly blue. Steel blue, sharp and clear, with the kind of intelligence behind them that you feel more than see. A full, undeniable silver fox. Possibly early fifties. The kind of age where men stop pretending and start owning every room they walk into. And it works for him in the way that some things just work, the way red wine works, the way old leather works, the way a voice that sounds like it was poured over gravel and dark wood just works. The kind of man who probably remembers a time before Instagram and still somehow looks better than every man currently on it. In one hand, he holds Benji's leash. In his other hand, the leash of the brindle beast, who I now recognize as a Cane Corso. A massive, beautiful one, with bright bronze eyes and a panting grin. He looks down at me with those steel-blue eyes, and there is humor there. But not cruelty. Not even a hint of it. "I believe this belongs to you," he says. My brain is currently operating at about forty percent capacity. The other sixty percent is busy processing the fact that a devastating silver fox just rescued me while I was flashing Brooklyn. "I, uh." I blink. "Yes. I. Thank you." Eloquent. Stunning. Truly one of my best moments. He hands me Benji’s leash. Our fingers brush. His gaze drops. Not to my face. Lower. His jaw tightens slightly. God… why is he looking at me like that? And why does heat rush straight through me?... ➜Find out what happens in Savage King, by Kai Lesy. FREE on Kindle https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GS16M1ST