Aarabelle
The white sports bra snaps into place as I pace the stone floor in my new mansion-sized bedroom. It’s about the size of my entire condo if you count the bathroom with ornate gold columns and a claw-footed tub that could pass as a swimming pool. My suitcase sits open inside the walk-in closet. I rifle through it for my Nike trainers. Lacing them on, I stop in front of an oval mirror.This is what a liar looks like,I think. I slick my wet hair into a giant top-knot and then flex my muscles from different angles. Sighing, I walk over to the bed where Clement sits next to my cell.
My mom called, but I didn’t answer. She talked to my dad and I’m sure she has words for me. I ignore it, and pull an arm across my body to stretch, then repeat on the other side. I’m sick of worrying about every single detail of my life. Everything planned or guided by a set of directives. My body is warring with my mind. The need to kiss him, touch him, be underneath him is greater than my sensibilities.
When I exit my room, I see the light on down the hall to my right. The door to the gym is open and there are two protein shakes on the high-top table when I enter. Mine is the vanilla one, I recognize the scent, and begin drinking it as I take in the expanse of this room and the amount of equipment at my disposal. I’m walking by the plates, taking stock of what I have to work with when the speakers start thrumming an old nineties song.
“I think I like this look more than the bikini,” he says, turning his head to the side like a bird as he studies me. My core lurches to life. A look. A casual thing sends me into overdrive. I squeeze my thighs together, crossing my legs at the ankle. Hart notices. The feral swagger goes into overdrive.
I roll my eyes and keep drinking—trying to keep my cool. My black workout shorts are short, but they definitely cover more ass than a bikini. I notice he’s not drinking his shake, he’s still watching me with hawk eyes. He’s still shirtless, because I’m learning that’s his natural state outside of public. His voice is a rumble. “How much do you weigh?”
That gets my attention. “That’s one of the rudest questions you can ask a woman.”
He licks his lips. “I bet I can bench press you.”
I suck the remaining shake through my straw as his gaze lingers on my mouth. “Of course, you can. What are you throwing up? Three-Fifty? Four hundred? I’m a fraction of your max.”
“Okay, so partner workout then?”
I cringe, setting my cup down on a different table in front of a television that’s switched off. “I don’t workout with anyone, Hart. More of a lone wolf in the land of weight racks.”
“So am I. Let’s try something new. Roomie.”
I gulp down the lump in my throat. “Everything in my life is new right now, Luke. Literally everything.”
He turns his palms up. “What’s one more thing then? Plus, I really just want to touch you.”
“You could just touch me,” I return.
“Without an underhanded motive, I won’t stop touching you, Dempsey. How about you let me touch you on my terms.”
My stomach flips when amusement flickers in his blue gaze. “I guess.”
The muscles rippling across his stomach tighten as he strides forward to pick me up. “Keep it tight,” he says, breath hot against my bare midriff, spinning me like I’m as light as air one hand is on my back the other just below my ass, which is actually sort of part of my ass, but I’m in no position to argue nor would I want to. I squeal as he pops me in the air to fix his grip. Luke’s face is level with my obliques, and tingles crawl across my abs when the scruff on his face scratches against my bare skin.
“Okay, this is my warm up.”
I’m literally flexing every muscle in my body to keep straight as a board in his grasp. Not that I think he’ll drop me, I just want this to work and don’t want to be the reason it doesn’t. “Hurry up, Hart. I have to warm up, too.”
He bench presses me over his head and I turn my head to watch him lift in the mirror. He looks like a goddamned beast. A beautiful, Godzilla-like, creature holding the woman at the top of the Empire State Building. He pumps me up and down like I’m a rag doll. His breathing picks up as his pace does. I’m holding my breath and don’t realize it until I exhale noisily, drawing his gaze up to meet mine. His smile glints with mischief, an underlying menacing aura that sends a flood of wetness to my shorts. Close to where his warm hand burns against me, and I can do nothing to stop it.
The song changes as does the speed in which he’s lifting me up and down. Now my frame leaves his hands completely at the top and he catches me.
“Okay killer, my organs are crying out in protest!” I screech, crossing my arms over my chest to keep my elbows from nailing his face or head.
His breathing speeds as he drops me down to his chest. “You’re a good warmup.” Luke presses a kiss on the side of my stomach.
“You’re a good…something,” I reply, my breath lodging in my throat. Am I seriously going to pass out? Is this real life? What is happening to me?
He drops me down, circling me in his arms. How is it possible that he smells even better when he sweats? There’s a faint sheen covering his rippling muscles. As I inhale, I look away. I hate that my body is clearly vibrating toward him.
“Warm up. Use me.” It’s a rough order.
I’m a SEAL with weak knees. Now you know it’s a possibility. I never would have thought either. “I’m surrounded by very nice gym equipment. I could run a quick five to warm up.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” His eyes twinkle with mirth.
Marissa sent me a goofy Instagram montage video of couples working out together. It’s the only reason I’m able to come up with something on the spot. “I can’t bench press you,” I say. “Let me climb you. I have an idea.”
