Mr. Fiancé(97)

"You done showing off for yourself?" Carrie said behind me, and I turned. For the first time, I was struck dumb by her as she stood there with her arms crossed in front of her body.

Those curves.

That ass!

Holy shit, Carrie Mittel's fucking stacked! She's not skinny, but with a guy my size, she’s exactly how I like it.

Her hips flare out from her trim-ish waist in a set that lets you know those hips do not lie at all, before drawing down into legs that I just want to pour some gravy over and gobble. Every man's got a body part they like best, and I've always been one for a strong, toned set of thighs, and Carrie . . . she's got the sexiest set of legs I've ever seen.

My cock twitches in my shorts, and I have to remind myself that I'm supposed to be pissed at her. "Is that for motivation?" I finally get out. "Because you know, I'm wearing less than you."

"We're not playing strip poker," Carrie retorts, but I see her eyes flicker over my torso. She likes what she sees. Still, she's all business, at least on the outside. Give it time, she can’t keep this up for long. “Let's get that hex bar over there. We're starting with trap bar deadlifts."

"The fuck you say?" I ask, surprised. "This is an elbow rehab session, not a full-on workout.”

Carrie looks at me like I'm an idiot, and I shut my mouth again. How is she doing this to me? "Holding the weight in your hands allows you to strengthen your biceps tendon and muscles without putting direct strain on the cleared out areas. Besides, you're a football player. You guys are supposed to have strong hips and lower backs for your sport, right?"

We get started, and I'm surprised when she brings over another hex bar, sliding plates on it herself. "What's that for?"

"You told me to put my money where my mouth is," she replies. "I'm not stupid enough to try to lift the weight you can. But I'm not a prissy princess either."

I watch as Carrie grabs the two handles of the bar and starts copying the motion I was just doing, and even though I'm not as much an expert in weight training as I am in football, I know that she's barely getting started. Setting the bar down, she grins and tosses me a glance with her eyes, which I notice are strikingly pretty for their being brown. They’re gleaming at me right now, and she's smirking. "By the way, pound-for-pound, that's more than what you just lifted. So how about you stop fucking around and we get to work?"

By the end of the workout, not only does my arm ache, but my entire spine aches from my neck to my tailbone. Deadlifts, hip lifts, pullups, pulldowns . . . I swear, I didn't know there were so many ways to work the back. I guess I’ve been taking it a bit too easy.

Through it all though, Carrie was right there with me, going nearly rep for rep even if the weights were lower. She even grunts sexy, and my cock is stirring in my shorts again as I watch her in her now sweat-soaked workout shirt that's clinging to her every curve. She hits the switch on the machine that my elbow is resting in, and a low hum starts up. "All right, that oil's going to warm up here in about two minutes. You've got ten minutes in there before we get you in the whirlpool. Ten minutes in there for a general full-body soak, and you'll be done."

"Think you can hang out while I sit here in this thing?" I ask. "I'd have brought a book if I thought ahead."

"You don't strike me as someone who thinks ahead a lot," Carrie says with a smirk, but she sits down. "Or someone who reads, for that matter.”

"Actually, I'm carrying a 3.2 GPA. Not Dean's List or anything, but I'm not just some dumbass ball player who doesn't know shit outside of pass routes and how to play beer pong." It's true. I'm not an idiot. If I’m going to be in control of my life, and I will be, I need to be smart enough to not get ass-fucked by an agent. Not to mention, when your father is one of the biggest businessmen in the Silicon Valley, you don't grow up without learning a thing or two. "What about you?"

"3.95," Carrie replies, but without taunting. "I'm here full-ride academic, so I've gotta keep the grades up."

"That's impressive," I grudgingly admit. "Those are the sort of grades that you hear about from the engineering geeks or something. What's your deal?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, sitting back and stretching those incredible legs out in front of her. She leans back and spreads her arms out to the side to stretch, not realizing or not caring that it's also turning her chest into twin mountain peaks that stick an impressive way into the air. I admit it to myself that I want nothing more than to get her in the sack—if nothing more than to teach her a lesson on who’s the boss.