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)
“You came for endorphins?” he asks, and the gleam in his eyes tells me he’s picturing a completely different endorphin-generating scenario from the one I meant.
And there I go again. My panties are officially damp.
“This conversation is over.” I turn to leave, as much to get his perfect face out of my sight as to make a statement.
“Wait,” he says—and fuck, his voice alone is doing things to my insides. He steps around me to block my way. “If you don’t want a session with me, let me at least show you a few machines that can help you get those endorphins.”
What he seems to leave unsaid is that these machines are the second-best way to get endorphins when he’s involved. The number one way is, of course, to fuck his brains out. Or is it my brains?
Also, why is “brains” plural in that expression?
I give him my best glare. “You really think I can’t use a machine without your supervision?”
He smirks, and damn him, it’s a sexy smirk. “Use safely? I think we just saw the answer to that.”
I resist the urge to growl. “You’re insufferable. What happened was a freak accident, nothing more.”
“If you say so.” He pointedly glances at the cursed treadmill.
“Let me show you how little I need your so-called help.” I stomp over to the nearest machine—an upright bench with two paddle-like things at waist level. I have no idea what it does, but there are instructions on it, and I learned how to read when I was five.
“That one?” He arches his eyebrow in an infuriatingly cocky way. “You sure you don’t want to make your point somewhere else?”
“Stop following me. Or shut up.”
“This should be interesting.” He folds his arms across his chest again and watches me, eyes gleaming with amusement.
I read the small font.
Sit upright, with back against the pad.
Hmm. As I plop onto the seat, the paddle thingies align with my legs, which I should have expected but somehow didn’t. This gives me an unpleasant suspicion, like maybe I’ve seen this exercise before, on a less fancy machine and—
“Hip abduction?” he murmurs. “Interesting.”
I turn from the instructions to glare at him, but it’s a mistake, insofar as I get ensnared by his ridiculously handsome looks again. “Abduction is not hip, no matter how cool the aliens.”
He snorts. “Hip as in those that don’t lie in that song by Shakira.” He gestures at his own narrow hips, but that just draws my attention to the nearby bulge in his shorts. “As to abduction, it means your limbs will move away from your midsection. Both words are homonyms, but I bet you knew that.”
I snort. “I don’t know what a homonym is, but it sounds vaguely homophobic.”
It also sounds like Ash might’ve gone to college and/or read a book, which makes him impossibly more attractive.
Crap. Even his exasperated sigh is sexy.
“Go on then,” he says after said sigh. “Let’s see if you’re as smart with this machine as you are with your mouth.”
Is that his way of asking me for a blowjob?
No. It’s a challenge, so I read the rest of the instructions… and my heart sinks. My earlier suspicion was correct. This is that machine where you push apart the paddles with your knees to end up with your legs spread, like you’re begging someone to fuck you—or summoning a gynecologist.
Usually, in an empty gym or if surrounded by women, I wouldn’t have a problem spreading my legs, no matter how obscenely wide. But to do so with Ash staring, and while I’m so wet…
“Nope.” I leap to my feet. “There will be no abductions today.”
He smiles—and it’s like a glorious sunrise after a hurricane. “I can show you a better way to work those same muscles, using movements that are more natural.”
“Oh, yeah? Let me see this alleged way.”
He leads me to a machine with cables sticking out of it and grabs two thingies that look suspiciously like a collar a sub would wear in BDSM—with a metal ring attached and everything.
Is this workout about to turn kinky? And… do I want it to?
“You put these around your ankles,” he says, demonstrating on himself.
He then clips the ring on the collar—or shackle—to the cable on the bottom of the machine, which still looks kind of kinky now that my mind has gone there. With four of these shackles, two on wrists and two on ankles, one could be restrained in a spread-eagle position and then—
“Next, you do this.” He extends his bound leg to the side, lifting the weight attached to the cable.
Fuck me. All his muscles—but especially those in his powerful legs—flex in the process of this demonstration, doing damage to my sanity and panties.
“And then with the other leg.” He clips his other ankle in and stands with his back to me, giving me a view of his perfectly sculpted back and ass.