Page 69 of Snatched
“Yeah.”
Her voice goes small. “Is that… necessary?”
“Very,” I say. “It’s leg day. And you did say you wanted to work on your derrière.”
“Mmm. Glad to know you’ve been practicing your French because of me.”
I’m already regretting this choice, but it’s too late.
I set up the bench, load the bar, then sit on the bench and demonstrate the movement.
She watches me with the kind of attention that makes my chest feel too tight.
“Your turn,” I say, trying to sound normal.
She sits on the floor, back against the bench.
The position is…I can’t think about the position.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No,” she admits.
“Good,” I say. “We’ll start light.”
I help her roll the bar over her hips. Her breath catches when the metal touches her.
“You good?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says, panting.
She is absolutely not fine.
“Alright,” I say gently. “Drive through your heels. Lift your hips.”
She lifts.
And as her back arches and her hips rise, I lose whatever composure I had left.
Her breath shudders on the exhale.
My hand instinctively touches the air near her waist—not on her, but close.
“Higher,” I manage. “But don’t overextend. Stay relaxed.”
She obeys. Her head falls back against the bench, and her ponytail spills over the edge.
A soft sound leaves her throat—too soft to be indecent, but enough to bruise my self-control.
“Good,” I say, voice low. “Very good.”
She opens one eye. “You sound…pleased.”
“I’m a trainer,” I say. “My job is to encourage good form.”
“Mmm,” she says. “Is that what this is?”
“Elena,” I warn.
