“Come here,” he summons from a stretch to touch his toes. His eyes lift, and off I go between workout benches and toward the scent of his cologne doused in the grit of his exertion.
“Was anyone out front when you got here?”
I crane my neck and accept a kiss on the lips. “No.”
He frowns and reaches for the remote to lower the music. “I don’t want you walking from the parking lot by yourself.”
“You make it really hard to yell at you when you get all protective.”
His brow crinkles. “Is that so?”
Don’t look at his chest.“Yes. I’m not happy with you.”
“Really?” He steps forward.
I step back. “Yes.”
“Because I won’t let anyone mess with you? Disrespect you? Hurt you?” He steps closer. “You think I could look at myself in the mirror and play for a team whose owner is complicit in the theft of your work?”
When he says it like that…
“There has to be another way,” I protest. “Your absence is stirring up rumors you’re becoming a problem.”
“I’ll be that.”
I shudder when his arms slip up my back to pull me closer. “The team needs their captain.”
“And I need to do what’s right. You asked me not to go off publicly. I’m doing that. But don’t expect me to sit by and do nothing. I’m coming behind you every time.” His nose nudges my head back for a kiss that lifts me out my shoes. A growl slips out to smother my rebuttal.
The world falls away whenever we’re together. Every fear, every care, gets pushed aside. Common sense too, because never have I ever humped a man in a gym.
“I didn’t come here for this,” I say through a deep breath and step out of reach. The tingling in my lips is grounds alone for a visit to my doctor to check my circulation.
Antonio lifts both hands to an overhead bar. The broad expanse of his pecs contracts, daring me to lick off the sweat. “My apologies, Doe. Do you want to yell at me some more?”
Idiot.
“No.” I smile.
“Wanna spot me?”
“What?”
He motions to a weight bench. “I need to lift before I leave. Come spot me.”
I choke back a laugh. “I can’t save you in an emergency. I can barely lift three grocery bags with one arm.”
“Indulge me,” he says with a wink.
“I know what you’re doing,” I mutter, removing the flimsy coat I threw on before leaving the house.
“Finishing my workout? Quite observant, you are.” Antonio slides under an empty barbell. He positions his grip, his legs spread wide to tease the heavy print that’s summoning my heaux to come out and play. “You spotting or what?”
“Fine,” I sigh. “Where’s the weights?”
“Sit,” he says low, his eyes on me.
There’s no question the barbell can handle me. I’ve seen him bench-press well over three hundred pounds. The bar isn’t the problem. Putting my kitty inches from his face is.
