Free Linked by Heather Bowhay

with his wet hair. Still glistening wet, he was drop-dead gorgeous.
My eyes traveled from his bare feet up to the waistband of his jeans, where I
determined he was definitely a briefs kind of guy. A navy, elastic band rose
slightly above his jeans, and it looked like the tips of the white letters
formed the word Jockey .
    “Hi,” I
said breathlessly, but my eyes didn’t reach his face. I’d never really seen him
in the light of day without a shirt on, and it was impossible to look away from
his chiseled chest. The narrow band of chest hair that extended down and
lightly encircled his belly button was extremely sexy. Even the recent battle
marks on his skin seemed masculine, making him that much more attractive.
Gazing at his upper body almost sent me over the edge.
    “Um…hi,”
he said hesitantly, heaving his broad shoulders. As the muscles in his
impressive biceps tightened, I tried not to swoon.
    Taking
a step closer, I bravely reached out and slowly ran my fingertips across one of
the longer wounds. He jerked, and I heard him catch his breath. As if
frightened, he moved backwards until he was leaning against the wall. At long
last, I looked up and gazed into his aqua-marine eyes. He remained poised, but
his jagged breaths continued. With our eyes locked, I reached my other hand up
and placed it flat against his chest. Arching an eyebrow, I dared him to
rebuke.
    Without
uttering a word, he watched me carefully. Tiny muscles in his cheeks and along
his temples pulsated repeatedly and his jaw clenched.
    Breaking
the silence, I said, “I wish I could take these away. Do they hurt?”
    “Not
at the moment,” he said hoarsely, as I ran one hand along his abs. His
partially healed lacerations were rough and looked tender, so I was careful not
to press hard. Biting my lower lip nervously, I continued to slide my hand all
the way up his firm chest and over his broad shoulders. I allowed my hand to
linger on his right shoulder and traced the outline of a small tattoo with my
index finger as I peered at it curiously. The symbol was similar in shape to
the ankh on my ring, except the lower section came down and divided into two
angled lines rather than one single straight one.
    “What
does this stand for?”
    In a
low voice he said, “That’s the Egyptian hieroglyph Sa . It’s a sign for
protection.”
    “Oh,”
I said and traced over it again. “When did you get it?”
    “After
I became a Guardian. Most Guardians get one.”
    “Even
women?”
    “Yes;
although, they usually have it placed on the small of the back or on an ankle.”
    “Interesting,”
I said, shifting my gaze to his face. With his hands against the wall and his
head tilted back, he seemed to be bracing himself for an assault, and all the
while his eyes watched me like a hawk. Standing directly in front of him again,
I placed both hands flat against his chest and leaned forward until my forehead
rested against his body. Comfortable, and enjoying his Essence, I slid one hand
upwards and toyed with the silver chain hanging around his neck. I listened as
he took deep, rapid breaths; my face moved in accordance with his expanding
chest.
    “Is my
touch hurting you at all?” I asked anxiously. The Black Eyed Peas disco-based
beat in the hit song Meet me Halfway was pounding hypnotically from the
Centrum, and Fergie’s emotional but confident vocals were pouring through the
house.
    “No,”
he uttered in a voice barely audible.
    I closed
my eyes, turned my face and relaxed my cheek against his smooth, bronze skin.
Taking my time, I enjoyed the warmth of his body and inhaled his clean, fresh
scent. Sweet and bold. Irish Spring maybe? Whatever it was, he was
intoxicating. I could feel his heart pounding right against my ear. Strong and
swift, just like mine, only the butterflies in my stomach were fluttering out
of control.
    “How
does it feel?” I prompted.
    “What?”
he choked.
    “My
touch,” I clarified.
    “Overwhelming,”
he said after several