“I didn’t ask you to.”
“Cuz you don’t—”
“Have the first goshdarn clue,” I finish for him.
He says nothing else. Just stares up at me, hands at his thighs, one foot up a step beside mine, knee raised. Then, he captures my hips and drags me toward him, so I’m sitting on his upraised knee. Closer, till my hips are snug against his. Palms on my buttocks, then—my arms go around his neck as he steps away, forcing me to cling to him with my thighs around his hips, arms around his neck and shoulders. I bury my face in the side of his throat, inhaling him. He smells like man—deodorant, cologne, sweat, bar. He cups my bottom as he descends the steps, moving with me as easily as if he’s not burdened by my weight in the slightest.
We move through a weight room—six power racks, a large quantity of barbells racked vertically along one wall, weight plates stacked against walls and on free-standing racks, a pull-up station, a deadlifting platform, several Airbikes, several rowing machines, a heavy bag hanging from the ceiling, a rack of dumbbells in weights ranging from tiny to massive, battle ropes, and a number of adjustable benches. All the equipment is top-tier, new.
“Nice gym,” I murmur.
“Mmm.” A noncommittal grunt—agreement, since it is in fact a nice gym.
“Can I use it in the morning?”
He pauses. “Use it?”
“Yeah. To lift.”
“You lift?” He sounds surprised.
“Yes.” I can’t help sounding a little defensive, maybe even petulant—I’d hoped it was obvious that I lift, although I haven’t since leaving home.
“And you want to lift. Here. In the morning.”
“Or afternoon. Whenever we wake up.”
“Whenever we wake up,” he echoes, audibly perplexed.
“What part of this is confusing?” I ask. “That I lift, that I want to use your gym to do so, or that I’m assuming I’ll be here in the morning?”
“Yes.”
I laugh, burying my face in his neck again, now kissing the column of his throat, starting at the hollow at the base where it meets his chest, upward to the underside of his chin. “Well. Let me clarify. Yes, I enjoy lifting weights. I haven’t had access to a gym since I left home and I miss it and your gym is professional quality. And I’m assuming I’ll be here in the morning, because if you try to kick me out when you’re done with me, we’re going to have a problem.”
I feel the invisible but palpable sense of amusement emanating from him. “We’d have a problem?”
“Yes,” I sniff. “We would.”
“What kinda problem?”
“You want to find out?” I pull back to hold his eyes—we’re in the middle of the gym, his hands on my bottom, me clinging to him.
“Uhh…” He’s considering it, the dummy.
“Because the alternative is, I’d like to think, quite a bit better.”
“What’s the alternative?”
I whisper into his ear. “Me. In your bed when you wake up.”
His hands tighten into my bottom. “Oh.”
“And all that entails,” I follow up with.
“What does it entail?” he murmurs, hands tightening further.
“You don’t know?” I ask, my turn to be perplexed, now.
