Page 29 of Made
She scuffs me across the head, not too lightly, reminding me that she has three younger siblings and doesn’t take shit. “You, Maddox James, are no fun at all. Okay, okay, that’s enough phone 101 for now. Make sure you charge it properly, okay? Unless you charge it and actually keep it with you, it’s just a useless hunk of metal and plastic, and we don’t like waste, do we?”
“No ma’am,” I reply. I kind of like it when she’s bossy. It makes me want to show her who’s really the boss. Maybe I could take her over my knee and spank the sass out of her.
Fuck! Mind out of the gutter, you perv.
She gazes up at me, standing there in her gym gear, hands on those lush hips of hers. She has an hourglass figure, all curves and valleys, and the stuff she wears for her Pilates class leaves little to the imagination. Not that my imagination needs any help when it comes to this woman. She has been the biggest challenge to celibacy that I’ve ever faced, but she’s worth every frustrating moment of it. Being around her is a blessing. She lifts my soul, breathes joy into my day, and makes my heart sing.
“You wanna come to Pilates and I’ll kick your big butt at it?” she says, glaring up at me with a challenge in her exquisite blue eyes.
She also makes me laugh more than anyone else, even Mason. “Is the class a phone-free zone?”
She nods. “It sure is.”
“Then I’ll come along. I’m fairly sure my perfectly sized butt is safe from your foot though. I’m in shape.” I flex my shoulders to prove my point.
Her eyes run over my body, and I swear to God she lingers on the waistband of my sweats. She jerks her head upwards, cheeks red, and gives me a killer smile. “Oh, my poor sweet baby boy, you have no clue what you’re about to let yourself in for.”
Less than an hour later, I realize she was right. What kind of sick twisted fuck invented this bullshit? We all have these weird beds that look like medieval torture devices, with springs and pulleys and a footboard. My first thought when I saw them was that they’d be interesting to have sex on.
I don’t think that now. In fact, I think I’ve found the cure for my libido, and it’s called dynamic reformer Pilates. Shit, this stuff is hard. Some woman called Cynthia is at the front, and she could teach Stephen King a thing or two about how to strike terror into the hearts of the masses. She’s part sergeant major, part guru, and the soft chill music playing in the background that tries to convince us all this is relaxing practically mocks me as she leads us in the most grueling workout I think I’ve ever had.
I wasn’t lying about being in shape. I run. A lot. I cycle and swim. I lift weights at the community center. I’m a big guy, naturally athletic. A former quarterback who’s always enjoyed exercise. And yet here I am, getting my ass handed to me on a plate by a group of women half my size. Women with incredible balance, core strength, and muscle tone. Women who are absolutely one hundred percent whooping my ass. Not that I’m a sexist douchebag, I know women are strong and tough and capable, but fuck me.
Ellie the Magnificent and Awesome is on the machine next to me and actually has the spare energy to laugh at my misfortune. There’s a fine sheen of perspiration coating her body, and I tryvery hard not to stare at her ass while she contorts her supple form into positions that mine simply isn’t capable of.
“How’s your butt feeling?” she asks when class is mercifully almost done. I grimace at a sharp twang in my hamstrings.
“Like it’s been well and truly kicked. Then kicked some more, and maybe stabbed, then set on fire.”
“Told you so.” She smirks and sticks her tongue out at me, and I bark out a laugh. No man in the history of men has ever been as relieved as me when class ends.
I spend a solid five minutes slumped in the corner, wondering if I’ll ever walk again. Ellie saunters around like she’s done nothing more strenuous than a mild stretch, then holds out her hands to help me to my feet.
“It doesn’t mean you’re not fit,” she says as we leave the studio. She’s taking pity on me, it seems. “Because obviously, my friend, you are pretty fit. It’s just a different type of fitness, a different type of strength. Tell me you enjoyed it though, didn’t you?”
“No, because I don’t like lying. I hated every goddamn second of it.” I lie, because I didn’t hateeverythingabout it.
I very much enjoyed the parts where I was staring at her ass, of course, but it would spoil the vibe if I said that. Not to mention make me sound like a creep.
We stroll together through the evening streets. It’s pleasant, the sun still shining, people sitting out at tables on the sidewalk for drinks and dinner. We pass a busy wine bar, and she looks a little wistfully through the window.
“You wanna go in? Grab a drink? You could even let me buy them, so I recover a little of my macho pride.”
“No, it’s okay,” she says, shaking her head. Her curls spill loose, and I shove my hand in my pants pocket so I don’t reach out and run my fingers through them. “I usually go here with Katy.”
Katy is, what they call in the trade, her BFF. She’s the pocket-sized blonde I almost punched in the face when I took Ellie that Yankees cap. We’ve met a few times since, and she seems great. Though she always gives me a weird look when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Like she’s maybe sizing me up for a casket. At a guess, she’s protective of Ellie, and for that she has my approval.
I know Ellie has been through a few bad relationships and dated a string of assholes. I have no intention of hurting her that way, and I’m right there with Katy. If any man does hurt her again, he’ll have me to deal with. Unless I’ve just been to a reformer Pilates class, in which case it will take me a full six business hours to be able to feel my arms and legs.
“We can go in, you know, Ellie. I’m fine with bars,” I assure her.
She nods but doesn’t look convinced.
“I mean, I would usually go to places that do food as well. And that Irish pub my brothers love, which is an experience all its own with the sawdust on the floor. But still, I’m okay with a bar.”
“This place is more a cocktails and wine kind of vibe. It can get a little lively,” she says, eyelashes fluttering seductively against her cheeks.
“Hey, if you want to get shitfaced and go full-on Coyote Ugly on the bar, that is one hundred percent good by me. I don’t feel uncomfortable being around people who drink. Shit, my brothers might as well buy their own distillery, the amount they put away on Sunday brunch alone. Just because I’m sober doesn’t mean I expect everybody else to be.”
