Harper stared down at her French quiz, the letters swimming on the page, as she struggled to focus on the subjonctif tense instead of on Adam. She’d been having just a little problem with that al day long. She’d seen him the night before, shooting hoops in his driveway. No shirt on. God, she wanted him. She had been about to go to sleep when she heard the rhythmic pounding of the bal on the cement pavement—and when she looked out the window, there he was, barely visible in the dim light of the ful moon. Racing back and forth across the driveway, his muscles straining with the effort, his hair wild, his movements fluid, one sculpted pose melting into the next. So lean and taut, so graceful. His large, warm hands, his supple fingers massaging the bal . She liked to imagine those fingers grazing her body, climbing through her tangles of hair, stroking her legs. Too bad it was only her imagination; too bad his fingers were, for the moment, taken. Just like the rest of his body, from his thick calf muscles to his tight pecs to the light sprinkling of freckles across his nose.
