Page 3 of Stolen Moments

His body is a work of art. Defined pectorals, ridged abdominal muscles, obliques that create that V-line that should be illegal. His shoulders are broad and powerful, his arms thick with muscle that flexes when he moves. And the tattoos, they’re even more extensive than I thought. A phoenix rising across his ribs, geometric patterns that follow his muscle lines, script in what might be Spanish curving along his collarbone.

“See something you like, Sharma?”

I snap my eyes up to his face, feeling heat flood my cheeks. “I’m observing your muscular structure.”

“That's what we’re calling it?”

“That’s what it is.” I grab my clipboard like a shield. “Let’s start with basic measurements. Stand up, please.” I need to pull myself together, this is going to be hard.

He stands, and I realize how tall he is. I’m five-foot-six and he towers over me, all muscle and heat and that cologne that smells like cedar and something darker. It’s the only scent which will be around me for I don’t know how long.

“Arms out to the sides.”

He complies, and I step closer with my measuring tape.

This is fine. This is professional. I’ve done this dozens of times. He is just another project, that’s all.

Except I’ve never done it while acutely aware of how close I’m standing to someone. How I can feel heat radiating off his skin. How his breathing changes slightly when I reach around him to measure his chest circumference.

“Forty-two inches,” I mutter, writing it down. “Now shoulder width.”

I have to stand even closer for this measurement, practically pressed against him to get the tape positioned correctly. He smells amazing. Like clean sweat and that cologne and something which is hitting me in all the wrong places.

“Are you always this professional, Sharma?” His voice is low, amused.

“Always.” My voice is not steady, and he knows it. “Hold still.”

“I’m very still. You’re the one shaking.”

Damn it. He’s right. My hands are trembling slightly as I record his shoulder measurement.

“I’m not shaking.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

I move on to arm measurements, biceps, forearms, wrist circumference. His muscles are impressive, clearly the result of years of athletic training. I try to focus on the academic aspect, on the way his deltoids connect to his biceps, the definition of his triceps, the vascular patterns visible under his skin.

But I’m also very aware that I’m touching him. That his skin is warm and smooth and his muscles are firm under my fingers.

“How often do you work out?” I ask, trying to sound clinical.

“Two hours in the morning, practice in the afternoon, sometimes extra conditioning at night.”

“That’s… a lot.”

“That’s hockey.” He watches me with those dark eyes as I measure his forearm. “How often do you study?” He asks.

“All the time.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“Says the guy who trains six hours a day.”

“Fair point.” He grins. “We’re both workaholics. At least I admit it.”

I move to his other arm, hyper-aware of how his muscles flex under my touch. “I need to palpate your deltoids now.”

“Go ahead, and just say you need to touch me. SSounds better.”