Page 42 of Bone Deep
“That's not happening either!” I shout back.
The NFL’s top quarterback just laughs and turns the corner, disappearing down the block. By the time I push through the doors of my building, the quiet lobby feels like stepping into another world.
George looks up from the concierge desk as I walk in. He greets me. “Evening, Mr. Stark.” I give him a small nod as I head toward the elevators. The ride up is quiet, my reflection staring back at me in the brushed metal doors. My hair is damp with sweat, shirt clinging slightly to my chest from the workout. I exhale slowly as the elevator doors slide open and I step out on my floor.
Letting myself into my condo, Fucker sits right inside the doorway, tail curled around his paws, staring up at me. He lets out a single, unimpressed meow. I look down at him as I shut the door behind me. “It’s just me,” I say.
Another meow.
I sigh. “I know. You’re disappointed.” He flicks his tail as if to say,bring the hot blond jock back for me to play with. I kick off my shoes and walk past him toward the bedroom. “Don’t start,” I mutter over my shoulder when he follows me.
The bedroom is dim except for the lamp on my nightstand. I peel my shirt off then shove my gym pants down my legs. Sweaty clothes go straight into the hamper as I step into the bathroom and turn on the shower.
While it heats up, I glance at myself in the mirror. I turn sideways slightly, looking over my shoulder. I check my ass. My thighs. Then I shift my weight, studying the lines of musclethere. “I did get a good pump from that workout,” I murmur to absolutely no one.
It’s not like I’m out of shape. Between the incline hikes, my dumbbell set, and eating a protein-forward diet, I maintain a good build. Like I said, I’m genetically blessed, especially below the waist. But my focus has always been work.
Still…
I flex slightly again, watching the muscles shift under my skin. “It couldn’t hurt to step up the routine,” I mutter.
The shower is steaming now. I step under the hot water and tilt my head back as it hits my shoulders, the heat melting a little tension out of my muscles.
Then my brain betrays me. Ryan’s stupid shorts. Those five goddamn dimples. That smug grin.
I grit my teeth. “No,” I actually bark aloud, bracing one hand against the tile. “I don’t bend my rules.”
Rules exist for a reason. I don’t get involved with straight men who think experimenting is a fun little adventure. I don’t get tangled up with men who could derail the carefully constructed life I’ve built.
I don’t have the time or the patience for a pretty athlete in slutty little shorts with full, pouty lips.
Nope.
My eyes drop and my cock is standing at full attention. I stare down at it in disbelief. Fuck.
Not. Happening.
I willnotbe gym buddies with Ryan Buterbaugh.
Eleven
Crush
Spencer
I’m a liar.
A lying liar who lies.
I glare at the gym bag sitting in the chair across from my desk like it’s somehow responsible for my behavior.
Six months.
That’s right. Six entire months I’ve been gym buddies withRyan fucking Buterbaugh.
The man is so relentless it borders on obstinate. He showed up exactly as promised two days after our first workout. And yes, my stupid gym bag had been sitting right here in that exact chair, ready to go.
He kept showing up.
