Page 22 of Craved By the Mountain Man

My mouth goes dry.

His back flexes when he turns.

There are scars there.

Some pale and thin, others rougher, crossing muscle that moves beneath his skin with every strike.

His black hair is damp at the temples. Sweat gleams over his shoulders and runs down the center of his back.

He pivots.

My brain stops.

There is dark hair across his chest, narrowing over a stomach made of hard ridges and terrible intentions.

“This feels illegal,” I whisper.

Gavin drives another fist into the bag.

I should look away.

I do not.

He shifts into something faster, a sequence I cannot follow. Elbow. Turn. Strike. Low kick. His body is too big to move that smoothly, except apparently nobody informed his body.

Gavin catches the bag with both hands and stills it.

Then he lifts his head.

His eyes find the window.

Mine.

I freeze.

Maybe he cannot see me.

The morning light is probably reflecting off the glass.

Yes.

Excellent.

Science is on my side.

Gavin raises one eyebrow.

There is something knowing in his eyes now, a dark flicker of amusement that tells me he has absolutely noticed how long I have been standing here.

Science abandons me.

He crooks two fingers.

Come here.

My stomach performs a complicated maneuver.

I point at myself.