I inch along the kitchen counter, squinting at numerous plastic containers of whey protein, keratin, L-Citrulline-whatever, and other bulk supplements. Looks like someone went shopping this morning at the steroid-man store.
Coffee’s already brewed—God love his sweet ass—and there’s even an empty mug waiting for me. I fix a creamy cup and follow the noise pollution into the basement.
I find him standing amid a pile of dumbbells with his back to me, curling some serious weight. His biceps bulge with each pump, his spine deeply cut beneath shredded muscle. If the music wasn’t so loud I bet I’d hear him hissing through each lift.
I used to watch him work out all the time. It turned him on when I did that, and he always fucked me after, slick with sweat and hard all over, right there on that weight bench.
With a sigh, I set the coffee on the bottom step and creep toward his futon. His bedding, all twisted and tangled, looks way too inviting. I snuggle in and press my nose to his pillow.
My eyes flutter closed as the scent of him—musky and manly—mixed with the spicy aroma of his shampoo saturates my senses.
The music shuts off, and I lift my gaze, colliding with his.
He braces his hands on his hips, cocking his head and panting with exertion. “Are you smelling my pillow?”
“What’s the point of pillows if you can’t stop and smell them every now and then?”
“You mean roses.”
“Roses die, but pillows are forever.” I steal another sniff and roll to my back. “I’ll take a bouquet of yours, accented with your breath. Not baby’s-breath, because that would be weird.”
“Or we could just share a pillow.” He prowls toward me. “And a bed. And body fluid.”
“You lost me at body fluid.” I feign a grimace. “You look sticky.”
“You used to love getting sticky with me.” He leans over my sprawled position and slides a palm from his sternum to the thin trail of hair low on his torso. Then lower, lower…
Ohmygina, his fingers are going in, dipping beneath his waistband and giving me a glimpse of how well he’s keeping up with the manscaping.
“Cole.” I groan. “You need to stop.”
“Your breathy voice says otherwise.” He places a knee between my legs and straddles one of my thighs.
Half of his hand is still visible above the waistband, so he’s not touching himself. But the heated look on his face tells me he wants to. Or more accurately, he wants me to.
“Do you still have the snake tattoo around your thigh?” I stare up at him, falling fast and hard into his dark chocolate eyes.
“Yes. Want to see it?” He lowers his hand another inch.
“Better not.” I swallow. “Are you finished with your workout?”
“I have push-ups left.” His dimples make an appearance, like double divots of mischief. “Do you want to get sweaty?”
“Oh, no. Don’t you dare—”
He grabs my waist and falls on top of me, rubbing his slick skin all over mine and using my body like a damn towel. I shriek and laugh, shoving at his pumped-up chest, but it’s a wasted effort. He out maneuvers, overpowers, and wrestles me into a sweaty, worn-out tangle of limbs.
“You win.” I sag beneath his heavy weight and run a hand down the curve of his back.
“I won the day I met you.” He nuzzles my neck and circles his hips lightly against mine.
He’s hard. So beautifully, deliciously long and swollen and ready. Four years ago, I would’ve reached my hand into those shorts and stroked him to climax. But I need to do the right thing and keep the disasters in my life to a minimum.
“How about those push-ups?” I comb my fingers through his hair.
“As hard as I am…” He lifts his head and grins at me. “Maybe I can pull off a cock push-up.”
“Oh God. That doesn’t sound remotely sexy.” I trace a finger beneath the ridge of his pecs. “Are you up for doing ninety-pound push-ups?”
Me, sitting on his back, is the only way he used to do them.
“Hmm. Ninety-pounds?” He rises on his knees and makes a show of examining my body. “I think you’ve added a few pounds. Or twenty.”
He knows damn well I haven’t gained an ounce since he met me. If anything, I’ve gotten leaner—a side effect of depression.
“Sounds to me like you’re afraid to try.” I arch a brow.
“Fuck that.” He jumps to his feet.
I follow him to the mat near his workout machines, savoring the effortless way his body moves.
He lowers into the push-up position, elbows bent, face down. “Climb on, baby.”
I sit on his spine and cross my legs, facing his feet. As a dancer, I have superior balance, so my job is easy. He, on the other hand, has his work cut out for him.