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And muscles.
And sweat.
And tattoos and arm veins and muscles.
Good grief, the muscles.
From my reclined position, I can’t tell how tall he is, but histhighs are…
Right there.
And his shirt is clinging to…
Good grief.
And his large arms are attached to large hands. And one of those hands is wrapped around my e-reader, making the device look like a deck of cards.
My eyes drop back to his thighs. And his navy blue shorts. And his… bulge.
Get a hold of yourself.
I snap my eyes up, ignoring the thin white T-shirt and ignoring his sleeve tattoo.
There will be no drooling over this man.
I try to focus from his neck up, but my eyes are stuck staring at his neck, which is also covered in ink.
He’s just a muscled-up, tattooed dude.
He’s just a man.
A man reading my book, a little voice reminds me.
Oh god, my book!
Remembering the scene I was in the middle of is enough to snap me out of my daze.
I sit up and twist toward the man so I’m facing him when my sandaled feet hit the floor.
It’s a mistake, though, because now my face is level with his stomach, and my eyes are back to focusing on what’s inside his shorts.
And I swear it just twitched at me.
A throat clears.
Inwardly, I wince.
Outwardly, I lift my gaze as though I didn’t just get caught staring at a stranger’s junk.
But he’s not looking at me. He’s still reading.
“Um…” I start, but that’s all I manage.
What is happening?
Men don’t fluster me.
They don’t.
