"I has to finish working on them," that individual told me in a belligerent voice."You will have to wait until tomorrow to finish working on them. The building is closing!" I told him and the others again. I also noticed that there were more of them now. Their numbers were up to ten now and they were trying to surround me as even more of them came up the stairs."No, we is going to do what we came here for," he told me, but had lowered the boots and tossed them to the side. "Ain't no young punk like you going to stop us either," he asserted. The crowd had grown to over sixteen by now and was turning mean."You will all leave the building immediately, or I will be forced to take action against you," I informed them in a loud voice so they could all hear and to cover the fact that I was calling up my personal wards around me."What you going to do? You don't got no gun or even a nightstick. All you has is that radio and it ain't even turned on," he asked with a laugh."There are other. He silently watched me, waiting to see what I would do, no doubt. Hesitantly, suddenly shy and irrationally fearing rejection, I lifted a trembling hand to the center of his chest, pressing the washcloth over his heart. His heart skipped a beat and he sucked in a deep breath when I began to scrub. I could feel every plane and angle of his body through the washcloth, his skin burned me through it. I slowly went over his chest, shoulders and back, fascinated with the play of white lather on his tanned skin. His eyes never left me and his fists clenched, a testament to the strength of his desire and the power of his restraint. I felt like I was in a small cubicle with a caged tiger, one that was caged only by his will. Dragging the cloth down his arm, I reached a fist, which he slowly relaxed. I paused a moment, feeling the sudden overwhelming urge to tell him, or show him in some way how much I’d been touched by him. My lips parted, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, I.
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