Two is a Lie(50)

I climb out of bed and head to the bathroom, cringing at the raucous noise thumping from the basement. Cole’s already hard at work, lifting weights and blaring his punk rock music. A grin lifts my cheeks as I picture him lip syncing and banging his head with belligerent intensity.

After emptying my bladder and brushing my teeth, I find freshly-brewed coffee waiting for me in the kitchen. I prepare a cup, sipping and sighing and feeling sweetly spoiled.

To return the favor, I blend up a protein shake for him and carry the chocolaty, foamy concoction to the basement. The loud, insistent music leads the way, contaminating my ears with violent lyrics.

My blood heats in anticipation of watching his ripped physique flex through his workout. With the music drowning out my footsteps, maybe I can spy on him for a while, observe him in all his unguarded, sweat-dripping, muscle-shredding glory.

I step off the last step, round the corner, and stumble to a gasping stop.

On the far side of the basement, he grips the edge of his workbench, an arm braced on the edge to support the weight of his upper body. His other hand isn’t pumping iron. The dumbbells lie at his feet, forgotten, as he pumps the hard, swollen jut of his erection instead.

My hand flies to my mouth, muffling my squeak, and the protein shake starts to slip from my fingers. I tighten my grip, saving it from crashing to the floor.

I should go. Turn around and sneak upstairs before he sees me. But the erotic sight paralyzes me in place, tingling my skin and accelerating my breaths.

The thrashing music swallows his noises, but I know he’s grunting. His mouth is open, and the ridges in his glistening torso contract and bunch with the rapid pace of his stroking hand. The upper curve of his ass flexes above the workout shorts, which hang precariously around his thighs.

And his cock… Holy hell, it looks longer, thicker than I remember, jerking in the fist of his hand. My mouth waters with the need to wrap my lips around him, to lap at the salty glans, and devour him whole.

He hasn’t noticed me, his head turned slightly away, as he focuses on the framed photo on the workbench.

I unlock my legs and take a few steps closer, squinting at the object of his attention.

It’s a picture of me in the dance studio, stretching during one of my warm-ups. He’s jacking off to that?

My chest clamps and swells as conflicting emotions barrel through me. Guilt pinches the hardest. He’s thinking only of me while my heart is torn in two. But I also feel relief and gratefulness and…arousal.

There isn’t a warm-blooded woman on the planet who wouldn’t be turned on by this. He’s so damn virile and beautifully built, from the right-angled outline of his mitered shoulders to the V-cut contour of his abs and hips. His physique is a chiseled masterpiece of sexuality and manhood.

Desire throbs between my legs, dampening my flesh. I wet my lips and inch forward another step.

“Danni.” The profile of his mouth forms the word, his voice inaudible beneath the roaring music.

I freeze, suddenly nervous and a little ashamed for spying on him. He doesn’t look at me, but he knows I’m here, ogling him like a pervert.

The hand on his cock slows, stopping to cup the tight sac beneath. Then he slowly moves his head and meets my eyes.

He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to. It’s all there in the taut muscles of his face—longing, frustration, and a hunger so potent it turns his jawline to stone.

I should head out and leave him to it, but everything inside me rages against that idea. I want to give him a hand, maybe two, and bring him over the edge, panting, shaking, and blissfully replete.

His eyes harden, and he lifts his chin toward the stereo that sits against the wall. I move toward it and power it off, blanketing the basement in silence.

When I pivot back to him, his shorts are pulled into place, his palms flat against the surface of the workbench as he leans into his arms.

“I didn’t mean to…” I shift my weight, tongue-tied and flushed. “I brought you a protein shake.” I set it beside the stereo.

He nods and closes his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose.

The damp basement air thrashes with awkwardness. This isn’t us. We fight, yell, bitch, and call each other out on our fuck-ups. But we’re never awkward together.

My attention falls to the bottle of lube on the workbench beside his hand. My no sex rule exists for a reason, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give a little. Without over-analyzing it, I stride toward him, snatch the lube, and climb onto the futon, kneeling at the center.

“Come here,” I say to his back.

“Not a good idea, baby.”

“I trust you.”

His shoulders heave with an unwieldy breath before he straightens, turns to face me, and narrows his eyes at the lube in my hand. “What are you—?”