Just then, he appeared in the entrance to the dressing room. It was the first time I’d seen him shirtless, and the sight shot an unexpected bolt of lust to my groin.
Dressed in navy sweat pants that hung low on his trim waist, the perspiration on his brow and the dampness of his dark hair testified to the strenuousness of his just-finished workout. Heat and a trace of musky male scent reached my nostrils, and my lips parted as I took in the thick, defined muscles of his shoulders and chest, which carried a light sheen of sweat. My gaze dipped lower, following the ripples of his corded abs, tracing the line of hair that led downward, before I caught myself and tore my gaze away from the generously sized package that his sweat pants did little to conceal.
With unsteady hands, I resumed stacking my clothes, hoping that he hadn’t noticed me gaping at him.
“Like what you see?” he said.
Annoyed that he’d caught me, I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Looks like you worked up a sweat.”
His expression told me that he hadn’t bought my cover-up. “Isn’t that the point of working out?”
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