My loose hand made its way to the top of one of his shoulders, and I wasn’t surprised at all to feel the muscles flex beneath my fingers, rock hard and pulsing beneath his shirt. I quickly scanned my memory—surely I’d seen him with his shirt off and would remember how these muscles looked sans cotton. But nothing came up. In all the times I’d seen him, and with all the alcohol consumed and the bar environments, I’d never seen him without his shirt. My hand resting on the counter wanted in on the action, moving almost by its own will to his waist—well, what there was to speak of. The lines of his face and shoulders were dangerously sharp and straight, and that didn’t stop at his pecs. His waist was hard and straight like a doorframe, hinging expertly into his narrow hips. As soon as my hand connected with his waist, his hand moved to mine. I’m not a petite person, but his hands still covered large sections of my skin. Their scale against my curvy body made me shift my hips, pressing them closer to his body.
