But yeah, I shouldn’t get wet because of his comments. That would be indecent. He’s my trainer.
Who kissed you last time.
Whatever. I shouldn’t clench between my legs every time he praises me. Not a good idea, body. We’re trying to get over these men, okay? No sex is happening, FYI. Quit desiring them.
Why does he have to keep putting those big, strong hands on me to correct my movements? And why can’t I look away from the ink peeking through his white T-shirt?
“Did you say that was a phoenix?” I ask.
“Didn’t you take a good look last time? Let me refresh your memory.”
I realize too late he has taken my question as a request to remove his T-shirt. Muscles ripple on his chest and arms as he whips it off and…
Whoa.
Sexy.
“I’m starting to like it,” he says. “Ryder thought phoenixes are symbolic of one thing or another.”
Did I say this was a bad idea? Terrible idea. This is why I ghosted him for a week. Well, technically, not ghosted him, just… put him off. As in, postponed him. Until I could deal with his sex appeal and the way I crave him.
The reports are in: it didn’t work. Time has lessened neither the annoyance nor the attraction.
Dammit.
“Now you’ve taken a good look, slide your right foot forward,” Zach instructs me, now bare-chested, obviously oblivious to my discomfort and just as obviously already over his brief attraction to me. “Coco?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, grumpy and not knowing what to do with myself. I’m aroused, can’t he smell that? Alpha senses are legendary. If he can and doesn’t care, then it’s even worse than I thought.
Then he just doesn’t care.
“Now turn,” he says, turn your back to me, “and elbow me in the stomach.”
“Elbow you?—?”
“Hard. Don’t be scared. You won’t hurt me.”
Probably not, because he has a stomach like solid steel, but I do my best anyway, drawing my fist forward and then slamming my elbow back.
He catches it easily, of course. Not that I had intended to hurt him.
Okay, maybe just a little.
“Good,” he says, “very good.”
There goes my pussy, calling to him. Zach…. Zach…
Dear God, he’s going to make me come with his words and warm voice and that sense that I’m obeying and doing it right.
Since when do I have a praise kink?
“Try it again,” he says, and I twist about to look at him, his bright eyes, his wide smile, that broad chest with the stupid tattoo on his pec.
Gulping, I nod and throw my elbow back, lower than before, though, and he grunts.
“Fuck. Fuck.” His voice is strangled, and I blink.
“Zach? What happened?” I turn to find him bowed over. “Zach!”
