Page 39 of Bone Deep
I burst out laughing. “You named your catFucker?”
Spence shrugs and starts taking off his suit coat. “Well, I couldn’t land on a name for the longest time. Just started calling him Fucker—because he acted like one—while I was trying to decide.”
He hangs the coat carefully by the collar on his pointer finger. “And it just stuck. I might give him a real name one day.”
I shake my head, still holding the cat, who is now purring like a tiny chainsaw against my chest. Petting my new friend, I look up and actually take in the place. “Oh.” My eyes widen. “Oh. My. God.”
Spence sighs behind me. “What now?”
I set Fucker down and start walking—rapidly—toward the kitchen. “Your kitchen,” I say dramatically. “It’s a dream. Holy shit, look at all this space.”
Spence follows slower, clearly already regretting letting me in. “Please,” he grumbles. “Be my guest.”
I run my hands along the beautiful stone counters, huge prep areas, and… “Is that—” Eight burners. A massive gas range gleaming under the lights. I gasp, spotting the double ovens.
“Holy shit.” I start opening drawers and cabinets. Soft close, functional, perfect organization. Then I open a tall door and freeze. “No way.”
A walk-in butler’s pantry. Shelving. More storage. More prep space. And on the other side of it, a formal dining room. I step through it, then back into the kitchen just as I hear Spence’s footsteps approaching over the hardwood.
“I have serious kitchen envy,” I gush.
Spence shrugs. “Thanks. I’ve never cooked in it, though.”
My mouth drops open and I slowly point at him. “That,” I say, dead serious, “is criminal.”
He loosens his tie slightly, and my eyes immediately drop to his hands. Hisstronghands. Long, thick fingers moving over the knot of the tie as he slides it loose.
Horned-up little butterflies flutter low in my gut. I quickly look away when I realize he’s watching me stare. Seemingly unfazed, Spence pulls the tie free and carefully drapes it over his arm.
“I’m going to change,” he says.
I gulp as my brain helpfully supplies an unfortunately vivid mental image of him peeling out of his suit. “Yep,” I say, nodding too quickly. “Great plan. Love that plan.”
He turns and heads down the hallway and I watch him go. Boy, do I watch him go. Those thighs. That ass. The fabric of his pants fighting for its life.
I cover my junk and will it, yet again, not to get any ideas.
Maybe becoming workout buddies with someone I want but can’t have wasn’t such a good idea.
Still, I just want—no I need—to be close to him.
Ten
Gonna Make You Sweat
Spencer
Kill me now.
All I can do is stare as Ryan does a set of squats. Every time he dips down—with mouthwatering form, I might add—those damn tiny shorts tug down just enough and two perfect dimples appear right above his ass.
Five.
I was wrong. The universe didn’t bless Ryan Buterbaugh with three dimples. No. He has five.
Five dimples.
Dimples in general are my weakness. But lower back dimples? They’re my fucking kryptonite. And his might be the best I’ve ever seen. Just sitting prettily atop that perfect athlete bubble butt, begging for me to put my thumbs in them while I plunge…
