Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Which I very much want to do, over and over again, with my tongue, and my hands, and my cock.
My inner barbarian is already scouting nearby surfaces, like the bench to my left and the yoga mats in the corner and—
“Thank you,” she says breathlessly, her hazel eyes glued to mine.
“You’re welcome.” I keep holding her against me, as though if I let go, she’ll continue her terrifying trajectory to the floor.
“Seriously.” She moistens her pink, soft-looking lips. “You can let go of me now.”
Ah.
Right.
With great reluctance, I set her on her feet and step back. The fog of lust is slowly clearing from my brain, leaving room for other emotions—like anger.
What the fuck was she thinking, being so careless?
She could’ve gotten badly hurt.
I could’ve not caught her in time.
She could’ve been—
“Aren’t you going to say something?” She blinks her long, sooty eyelashes at me.
“Yes,” I grit out. “Don’t you ever, ever, do something like that again. Is that understood?”
Chapter 3
Kendall
A few seconds earlier
As I fly from the treadmill, time seems to slow, giving me a cruel opportunity to picture myself breaking a limb. Or my neck. Or my tailbone. Either way, I will be so full of negative juju Tierre will fire me for sure.
Assuming I survive.
To my huge surprise, I don’t hit the ground.
Instead, I land upright, smashing into something hard yet pliant and enveloping at the same time.
Something that smells deliciously masculine.
Realizing my eyes are squeezed shut, I open them and… holy fuck.
My savior is built like a Greek statue but with more muscles. His sun-kissed hair is a couple of inches too long, a surfer’s look. Only instead of the ocean, he smells like lime zest, clean skin, and toe-curling sex.
Speaking of sex, his blue-gray eyes are hooded, and I can feel something big and hard against my belly. Something that is definitely not a flashlight.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, albeit a bit breathlessly. I’m really hoping Mr. McScrumptious can’t feel my drumming heartbeat or my pebbled nipples.
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs in a deep, soft voice that reminds me of melted things—like caramel, hearts, and panties.
With effort, I pull myself together—not an easy task since he’s still holding me. Since he didn’t get the hint from my thank-you, I say, “Seriously, you can let go of me now.”
I guess I could also push him away, but I’m not sure I can bring myself to do it—not with all the jolts of sensual energy zapping through my body, leaving gooseflesh in their wake.
Sadly, he listens to me and lets me go.
Grr. Why did I insist on that? I could’ve enjoyed his embrace for a few more minutes before it would’ve seemed too weird… right?
He even steps away—and the idiot that I am, I immediately miss his proximity.
As he stands there, his gorgeously carved face goes through a series of expressions, settling on something dark, which, for some reason, only makes me want to jump back into his arms—or into his bed.
Crap. Focus, Kendall. You’ve sworn off men, remember?
I swallow and pull myself together, again. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
Between the silence and his dark expression, I’m starting to feel all kinds of uncomfortable, and not all of it down south.
“Yes,” he growls. “Don’t you ever, ever, do something like that again. Is that understood?”
My hackles—which I thought I’d lasered off a long time ago—rise. “Ex-fucking-cuse me?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “How could you have been so careless? You could’ve hit your head.”
What the fuck? Who the hell does he think he is?
“If I had, I’d still be smarter than you,” I retort caustically.
He blows out a breath. “Is it that hard to attach the safety key?”
So that’s what the thingy is called? “I didn’t realize I had to. I usually run on the street.”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “The street?”
Is he picturing me running through Manhattan traffic? What kind of an idiot does he take me for?
“I run in the park,” I clarify. “‘On the street’ is just a turn of phrase.”
“Which park?” he demands. “Some are worse than the street.”
“East River. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Seriously, what is up with this guy?
He cocks his head. “I’m your fitness trainer, so anything to do with you running is my business.”
“Wait. You’re Ash?”
For some reason, I expected someone more boring-looking. Not to mention dressed in the gym’s uniform instead of short shorts that expose his powerful legs and a tank top that shows enough lickable skin to make one salivate.
He grimaces. “You can call me Ash if you insist, but I prefer to go by—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be calling you anything. This whole thing was a mistake. I’m just going to leave.”
He crosses his arms over his impressive chest. “Do you want a trainer who’d let you break your arms? Your neck?”
I roll my eyes. “What I want is a rush of endorphins to cheer me up. This—whatever you’re doing—is accomplishing the opposite.”