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As I continue to gawp at him—yes, my mouth has dropped open—I notice his perfect triangular form. My eyes travel from the broadness of his shoulders and upper back, right down to his slender, yet muscular waist. He’s not overly tanned, but with muscles like that, his lighter skin tone takes nothing away from the dips and crevices that move when he does.
Jackson turns around. I don’t know whether he felt my eyes on him prickling his back or not, but regardless, he’s now looking at me slightly amused. For what feels like forever, I cannot move. Really. I’m stuck to the spot with my mouth still hanging open. My eyes fall to his naked chest, which is no less defined than his back. I remember face planting into it on the first day we met, and I can now clearly see why it felt so solid beneath my cheek. His pecs are like rocks, followed closely by exquisitely defined muscles that run right down his abdomen.
Neither of my exes was a fitness fanatic, and honestly, I’ve never seen a six pack in real life. Until now, that is. Eventually, and with great effort, I pull my eyes away and make contact with his face again.
He’s smiling at me, but not with any arrogance or bravado. In fact, as I look at him, I’m utterly surprised that he actually looks a little bashful. If I’m not mistaken, his cheeks definitely look a little redder than usual.
Wait. Is Jackson Scott blushing?
He’s not the only one. As I finally manage to move my feet, I can feel my own cheeks blazing as though they’re on fire. As I hurry passed him, still clutching the towels close to my body, he grabs the sweater. “Thanks again for the dry clothes.”
“Yes. Yes. No problem,” I blurt hurriedly, before diving into the kitchen, throwing all my energy into chucking towels willy nilly over the floor.
