Stolen Moments (Thornhill University #6)

Priya

Subject: Advanced Human Anatomy - Model Assignment

Dear Ms. Sharma,

Your first session should be completed by Friday.

Dr. Patricia Morrison

I read it three times, certain I’m hallucinating from lack of sleep. Which reminds me, I need to sleep.

Jackson Rivera. The Jackson Rivera. Thornhill’s left wing known for aggressive play, that infuriating smirk, and a body that’s—

No. Stop. This is professional. Academics. I’m a pre-med student studying human anatomy, not some undergraduate who gets flustered by attractive athletes.

Except Jackson Rivera isn’t just attractive.

He’s the kind of attractive that makes even Professor Morrison pause mid-lecture when he walks past the science building.

Six-foot-two of muscle and attitude, covered in tattoos that peek out from his clothes, riding that motorcycle that violates at least three campus regulations.

He’s also failing Chemistry. Which means in addition to studying his body for anatomy, I have to tutor him twice a week as his assigned Teacher assistant.

Twenty hours mapping every muscle on his body.

Eight weeks of tutoring sessions.

I’m going to die. Actually die.

My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Heard you got stuck with me for anatomy. Sorry in advance.

My heart does something stupid in my chest.

Me: Is this Jackson Rivera?

Unknown: The one and only. Dr. Morrison gave me your number. Said we need to schedule our first session by Friday.

Me: Yes. The email said a minimum of 20 hours total.

Jackson: 20 hours of you studying my body. Sounds fun.

I can practically hear the smirk through the text.

Me: It’s purely academic.

Jackson: Sure it is, Sharma. When works for you?

I check my schedule, clinical rotations Monday and Wednesday mornings, TA hours Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, volunteering at the health center Friday evenings, studying every other waking moment.

Me: Thursday after my TA hours. 5 PM at the anatomy lab?

Jackson: I have practice until 6. How about 7?

Me: Fine. Don’t be late.

Jackson: Yes ma’am. ??

That emoji should not affect me. It definitely should not make me feel warm.

I’m in so much trouble.

Thursday arrives too quickly and too slowly simultaneously. I want to get started, but at the same time I didn’t want to be so close to Jackson.

I spend my TA hours trying not to think about the fact that in three hours, I’ll have my hands on Jackson Rivera’s body. I have to keep reminding myself it’s professional, and it’s for my degree and nothing else.

My last tutoring student is a freshman who can’t grasp molecular bonding, and I’m so distracted that I have to explain the same concept four times before she finally understands.

“Are you okay, Priya?” she asks. “You seem… flustered.”

“I’m fine. Just tired.” A lie. I’m never tired. I run on caffeine. I'm pretty sure it’s the only thing in my veins keeping me alive. I’m working so much I don’t even know when the last time I had eight hours of sleep.

By 6:45, I’m in the anatomy lab setting up my supplies. Measurement tape, markers, reference charts, camera for documentation, clipboard with the assessment forms I need to complete.

Jackson Rivera walks through the door at 6:58 looking like sin on skates.

He’s still in workout clothes, basketball shorts and a compression shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination.

His dark hair is damp from a post-practice shower.

His tanned skin gleams under the fluorescent lights.

And those tattoos, I can see them clearly now.

Geometric patterns running down his left arm, something that might be wings across his shoulders, script along his ribs that I can just barely make out through the thin fabric.

“You’re early,” I manage to say.

“Didn’t want to be late. You seemed very serious about that.” He drops his gym bag and looks around the lab with interest. “So this is where you dissect people?”

“We don’t dissect living people. That would be murder.”

“Good to know you draw the line somewhere.” That smirk. That infuriating, distracting smirk. “So how does this work? Do I just… stand here while you stare at me?”

I have to stop myself from looking at his body.

“I’ll be documenting your muscular structure, taking measurements, watching how your muscles work and creating detailed anatomical sketches for my capstone project.

” I gesture to the examination table. “If you could sit there first, I need to go over the consent forms.”

He sits, long legs dangling off the table, looking completely at ease while I’m trying to remember how to breathe normally. Why does he have to be so good looking?

I hand him the clipboard. “You’ll need to sign consent for photography, physical examination, and documentation of your anatomical structure for academic purposes.”

“Physical examination?” One eyebrow raises. “How physical are we talking?”

“I’ll need to palpate major muscle groups to properly identify and map them.”

“Palpate. That’s a fancy word for touch, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re going to touch me. A lot.” I watch as he licks his lips, then smiles, and tilts his head slightly to the left.

“For academic purposes.” I quickly reply and it makes him laugh.

“Right. Academic.” He signs the forms without reading them. “Anything else?”

“I’ll need you to remove your shirt for the upper body examination.”

Jackson grins, actually grins and pulls his compression shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

Oh my god.

I’ve seen plenty of athletic bodies in my anatomy classes. Studied countless diagrams of human musculature. Practiced palpation on classmates and cadavers and anatomical models.

None of that prepared me for Jackson Rivera shirtless.

His body is a work of art. Defined pectorals, ridged abdominal muscles, obliques that create that V-line that should be illegal.

His shoulders are broad and powerful, his arms thick with muscle that flexes when he moves.

And the tattoos, they’re even more extensive than I thought.

A phoenix rising across his ribs, geometric patterns that follow his muscle lines, script in what might be Spanish curving along his collarbone.

“See something you like, Sharma?”

I snap my eyes up to his face, feeling heat flood my cheeks. “I’m observing your muscular structure.”

“That's what we’re calling it?”

“That’s what it is.” I grab my clipboard like a shield. “Let’s start with basic measurements. Stand up, please.” I need to pull myself together, this is going to be hard.

He stands, and I realize how tall he is. I’m five-foot-six and he towers over me, all muscle and heat and that cologne that smells like cedar and something darker. It’s the only scent which will be around me for I don’t know how long.

“Arms out to the sides.”

He complies, and I step closer with my measuring tape.

This is fine. This is professional. I’ve done this dozens of times. He is just another project, that’s all.

Except I’ve never done it while acutely aware of how close I’m standing to someone. How I can feel heat radiating off his skin. How his breathing changes slightly when I reach around him to measure his chest circumference.

“Forty-two inches,” I mutter, writing it down. “Now shoulder width.”

I have to stand even closer for this measurement, practically pressed against him to get the tape positioned correctly. He smells amazing. Like clean sweat and that cologne and something which is hitting me in all the wrong places.

“Are you always this professional, Sharma?” His voice is low, amused.

“Always.” My voice is not steady, and he knows it. “Hold still.”

“I’m very still. You’re the one shaking.”

Damn it. He’s right. My hands are trembling slightly as I record his shoulder measurement.

“I’m not shaking.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

I move on to arm measurements, biceps, forearms, wrist circumference.

His muscles are impressive, clearly the result of years of athletic training.

I try to focus on the academic aspect, on the way his deltoids connect to his biceps, the definition of his triceps, the vascular patterns visible under his skin.

But I’m also very aware that I’m touching him. That his skin is warm and smooth and his muscles are firm under my fingers.

“How often do you work out?” I ask, trying to sound clinical.

“Two hours in the morning, practice in the afternoon, sometimes extra conditioning at night.”

“That’s… a lot.”

“That’s hockey.” He watches me with those dark eyes as I measure his forearm. “How often do you study?” He asks.

“All the time.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“Says the guy who trains six hours a day.”

“Fair point.” He grins. “We’re both workaholics. At least I admit it.”

I move to his other arm, hyper-aware of how his muscles flex under my touch. “I need to palpate your deltoids now.”

“Go ahead, and just say you need to touch me. SSounds better.”

I place my hands on his shoulders, fingers pressing gently to feel the muscle structure beneath the skin. His deltoids are well-developed, the muscle fibers clearly defined. I trace the anterior, lateral, and posterior sections, noting the way they attach to his clavicle and humerus.

Completely aware that Jackson’s breathing has changed, gone slightly deeper.

“Your deltoids are exceptionally well-developed,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “The definition suggests heavy resistance training focused on shoulder mobility.”

“That’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He says with a chuckle in his tone.

I yank my hands back. “I’m being professional.”

“I know. It’s hot.”

“It’s not—” I take a breath. “Can you turn around? I need to examine your posterior chain.”

He turns, presenting his back, and I have to suppress a gasp.

The phoenix tattoo is even more stunning from this angle, wings spread across his shoulder blades, tail feathers curving down his spine. The artistry is incredible, detailed feathers, shading that gives it dimension, colors that seem to glow under the lights.

“The tattoo is beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Thanks. Did it myself.”

“Yourself?”

“I’m an art major. Tattooing is just another medium.”

“You’re an art major?” This doesn’t compute the hockey player image.

“Surprised?”

“I just… didn’t know.”

“Most people don’t. The team doesn’t exactly advertise that their left wing spends his free time painting.” He glances over his shoulder. “You going to keep staring or actually examine me?”

Right. Professional.

I place my hands on his trapezius muscles, feeling the thick bands of muscle that run from his neck to his shoulders. Then lower, to his latissimus dorsi—the large muscles that give his back that V-shape. My fingers trace the muscle fibers, noting their size and definition.

“Your back muscles are very developed,” I murmur, more to myself than him. “Especially your lats and traps. The kind of development that comes from heavy pulling movements.”

“Lots of deadlifts and pull-ups.”

My hands move lower, to his erector spinae, the muscles that run along his spine. I can feel them contract slightly under my touch, his body responding to my examination.

“You’re very tense here,” I note, pressing gently at his lower back.

“Can you blame me? You’ve had your hands on me for twenty minutes.”

My hands go still, I know he's affecting me, but is my touch doing the same to him, or is this just the cocky hockey player talking.

“I’m just doing my job,” I say quietly.

“I know.” His voice is rough. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

I should step back. Should create professional distance. Should remember that this is a graded assignment and he’s a student I tutor and this cannot cross any lines.

Instead, I let my hands linger on his lower back just a moment too long before forcing myself to step away.

“That’s enough for today,” I say, my voice not quite steady. “Same time next week?”

Jackson turns around, and the look in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

“Can’t wait, Sharma.”