Page 4 of Stolen Moments

I place my hands on his shoulders, fingers pressing gently to feel the muscle structure beneath the skin. His deltoids are well-developed, the muscle fibers clearly defined. I trace the anterior, lateral, and posterior sections, noting the way they attach to his clavicle and humerus.

Completely aware that Jackson’s breathing has changed, gone slightly deeper.

“Your deltoids are exceptionally well-developed,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “The definition suggests heavy resistance training focused on shoulder mobility.”

“That’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He says with a chuckle in his tone.

I yank my hands back. “I’m being professional.”

“I know. It’s hot.”

“It’s not—” I take a breath. “Can you turn around? I need to examine your posterior chain.”

He turns, presenting his back, and I have to suppress a gasp.

The phoenix tattoo is even more stunning from this angle, wings spread across his shoulder blades, tail feathers curving down his spine. The artistry is incredible, detailed feathers, shading that gives it dimension, colors that seem to glow under the lights.

“The tattoo is beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Thanks. Did it myself.”

“Yourself?”

“I’m an art major. Tattooing is just another medium.”

“You’re an art major?” This doesn’t compute the hockey player image.

“Surprised?”

“I just… didn’t know.”

“Most people don’t. The team doesn’t exactly advertise that their left wing spends his free time painting.” He glances over his shoulder. “You going to keep staring or actually examine me?”

Right. Professional.

I place my hands on his trapezius muscles, feeling the thick bands of muscle that run from his neck to his shoulders. Then lower, to his latissimus dorsi—the large muscles that give his back that V-shape. My fingers trace the muscle fibers, noting their size and definition.

“Your back muscles are very developed,” I murmur, more to myself than him. “Especially your lats and traps. The kind of development that comes from heavy pulling movements.”

“Lots of deadlifts and pull-ups.”

My hands move lower, to his erector spinae, the muscles that run along his spine. I can feel them contract slightly under my touch, his body responding to my examination.

“You’re very tense here,” I note, pressing gently at his lower back.

“Can you blame me? You’ve had your hands on me for twenty minutes.”

My hands go still, I know he's affecting me, but is my touch doing the same to him, or is this just the cocky hockey player talking.

“I’m just doing my job,” I say quietly.

“I know.” His voice is rough. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

I should step back. Should create professional distance. Should remember that this is a graded assignment and he’s a student I tutor and this cannot cross any lines.

Instead, I let my hands linger on his lower back just a moment too long before forcing myself to step away.

“That’s enough for today,” I say, my voice not quite steady. “Same time next week?”