J.M. Snyder - Working Man - Lunch Break.pdf

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J.M. Snyder
WARNING
This e-book contains material that may be offensive to some: m/m sexual situations.
Store your e-Books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.
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Working Man: Lunch Break
Working Man:
Lunch Break
J.M. Snyder
Aspen Mountain Press
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J.M. Snyder
Working Man: Lunch Break
Copyright © April 2008 by J.M. Snyder
This e-book is a work fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names,
characters, incidents and, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a
resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
Aspen Mountain Press
PO Box 473543
Aurora CO 80047-3543
First Published by Aspen Mountain Press, April 2008
This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal
and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines
and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book
can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-60168-098-3
Produced and published in the United States of America
Editor: Sandra Hicks
Cover artist: Nikita Gordyn
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Working Man: Lunch Break
WORKING MAN:
LUNCH BREAK
I’m refilling the Cokes in the refrigerated case when he walks down the aisle.
He’s older than me by a good ten years or so, I’d guess, and his skin is the
delicate shade of decadent milk chocolate—just the way I like my guys. He wears pale
linen slacks with a crease ironed down the center of each leg and a sharp blazer open to
reveal a thin, pink, silk shirt that clings to him when he moves. Just by looking, I can
see he’s not wearing an undershirt because when he turns, the silk is pulled taut along
his slim torso and a hard nipple strains the fabric.
Oh my. I freeze, hands full of soda bottles that don’t quite make it into the case,
legs and arms pimpling with goose bumps from the refrigerated air. I’m staring, I
know it, but I can’t look away.
The light-colored clothing only enhances his dusky skin. There’s a dark shadow
of hair trimmed close over the top of his head, and his full lips are framed by a
manicured goatee that looks penciled in. His brown eyes are large and bright, with
lashes any Cover Girl would envy. As he comes toward me, his gaze flickers over the
stocked shelves, first one side of the aisle, then the other. Then he sees me and flashes a
quick smile that shows a glimpse of even, white teeth.
He is, in a word, perfect.
But then his gaze slides over me as if I’m just another display in the aisle—he
turns toward the cans of fruit stocked behind me and, in that instant, I’m reduced to
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