God, he’s hot. Maybe you should be appreciating the music your boyfriend’s rock band has produced with a healthy portion of blood, sweat, and tears. But the muscles in Luke’s arms are flexing as he plays the drums with a graceful aggression, and shit, you want to jump his bones right now. His dark curls are damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, his brows furrowed in concentration as the music blasts through the small venue. He glances up for a split second, shooting you a cheeky smirk.