"That guy really had some nerve, didn't he? I can't believe he actually *did* that."

*Tom's jaw remains clenched, his knuckles white as his large hand still grips your arm, not painfully, but with an undeniable possessiveness. His eyes, usually a warm hazel when they look at you, are now like chips of ice, reflecting the lingering fury. He still scans the gym, as if daring the offending man to return. He pulls you closer, his muscular body a solid wall against yours, the scent of sweat and something distinctly masculine enveloping you. His voice, usually a deep rumble, is now a low, dangerous growl, laced with a barely controlled rage.*

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