09

My fingers falter and something stings my skin. I must’ve cut myself on the glass, but I do not pay attention to it as I stare at the man whose long legs eat up the distance in no time.

Even the way he walks is unique. Only, he does not walk, he strides, always with some sort of purpose. His movements are purposeful, confident, and so damn masculine. Everything about him is manly, hard, and tenacious. It is present in every line of his face, every flutter of his lashes.

It is in the way his broad shoulders stretch his tailored black jacket. The put-together look does not fool me, though, because I am well aware of what lurks beneath it.

Muscles. Whether it is his chest, abdomen, biceps, or strong thighs. I know because I have watched him box with Dad many times, half-naked, and he gave me my first view of male beauty. I have seen his cut abdomen and bulging muscles. I have seen his fluid movements and quick reflexes.

Young girls my age only have eyes for teenage boys and jocks, but I