For what feels like an hour and a half, I push through, my legs moving almost as fast as I can get them to go for an extended period of time. I can feel the sweat dripping down from my hairline between my fucking tits, hear my lungs struggling for every breath. But that motherfucker called melazy, and now I have to prove him wrong.
Finally, he presses the big red stop sign, and the belt slows to a stop.
"Five minutes and 56 seconds, good job." He pats me on the shoulder, and I glare at where his hand landed on me and has yet to move. Rather than back off, he shoves me, forcing me to scramble to stop from falling over.
"Hey!" After another hard shove, I almost lose my balance before recovering and pushing him back, still panting and fighting to catch my breath. He reaches for me, and I swat his hand away. "What the fuck?"
He swings to strike me, and I barely duck from the blow, landing one on his stomach, not that it does any good. He just pushes me away again, readying for another volley of punches.
"You need to be ready to fight back even when you're winded," he tells me, trying to grab me around my waist as if to capture me. "They won't stop and let you catch your breath."
Letting him pull me closer and using his own momentum against him, I slam my elbow into his nose, breaking his hold on me.
Round and round we go, him trying to hit or grab me and me barely dodging it, sending me on the defense over and over until I can't breathe. When my legs and arms finally give out, my defeat looks suspiciously like surrender, lumping over while Eamon stands over me laughing. I don't even have the energy to flip him off again, my body all but crumpling to the floor from the final hit he landed on my thigh, sending pained tingles up and down my leg and forcing it to buckle beneath me.
"Do you need help up?" he chuckles. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming expletives at him, even though he really fucking deserves it. Instead, I reach out my hand and let him assist me to my feet, pulling me far closer than appropriate, the scent of him drowning me again as his chest brushes against mine. Amusement and pride pull his features into a soft smile, and even though he's my least favorite person right now, he looks so handsome like this. "You did great, Isla."
Something about him looking at me with that level of pride makes my heart dance, makes me want to be worthy of that expression. I don't even have the energy to pull away from him when he's so openly admiring me and my strength.
"Really?" No one has seen all the sides of me that Eamon has. And yet, not once has he turned away from the parts of me that might scare off a lesser person. He sees the strength in me, even when I don't see it myself. If I were in a place to be honest with myself, I might even admit that he brings out the strongest side of me.
But I'm not.
He nods, smiling brilliantly at me, his gorgeous lips lifting and revealing those perfect teeth.
Oh no, don't look at his mouth.
But it's too late.
Whether on purpose or subconsciously, I'll never know, but he lightly licks his bottom lip before pulling it between those teeth, my gaze stuck on the motion like a fucking deer in the headlights. I explicitly remember how it feels to have those teeth graze my skin, how sinful and perfect they are when they dig into my flesh.
"Isla," Eamon breaks the trance, and my eyes dart up to his. "Go shower."
It's a warning. It's a chance to flee. It's kindness in a way only Eamon can offer. A way out, while making his own desires completely known as his eyes trace my body salaciously, causing heat to gather between my legs.
I nod, unable to take my eyes off him as I do, taking a step back to hopefully free myself from the spell cast on me whenever he's too close. I see his chest heaving and hear the heavy exhale through his nose as he watches me retreat. Even after training, he smells so good I can't stand it, like leather and something sweet, fresh coffee, and— god, even the light layer of sweat smells divine. Once again, he's taking over every single one of my senses. A million thoughts run through my head about all the possibilities in this moment. If I just stop walking, he'll know it for the invitation it is. That's all I have to do. Stop walking, andhe'll take over, take the impossible choice off my hands, and give us what we're both clearly dying for.
But I can't.
I'm a fucking coward, and I know it. But I bolt, running from the terrifying truth that, for a moment, I forgot why sleeping with Eamon would be a bad idea.
Locking myself into the bathroom, I focus on getting ready for work, washing away all the sweat and desire, wishing the cleanliness would last longer than the time it takes for Eamon to track me down again.
He shows me the mercy of not interrupting my work day, giving me space for clarity throughout the entire day and well into the evening after I've finished my meetings and playing with numbers.
Only when I'm pleased with what I accomplished does he stick his head in my door, asking what I'd like for dinner.
"And don't saynothing. I don't want to hear you say that ever again. Pick something or I'll pick for you."
I almost laugh at how well he knows me already because I absolutely was going to say nothing.
"You pick. I'll eat whatever."
He groans in annoyance, bringing his giant body further into my room until he's leaning against my desk, looking down at me. "Alright. I'm thinking poutine."
"You always want poutine. Do youevereat anything else?" I wish to god I could take back those words the second they leave my stupid mouth. To anyone else, the question would be an innocent taunt, but with Eamon's penchant for making everything seem dirty, it's a softball setting him up for a line that'll have me rubbing my legs together against my will.
He hums in thought, "I can think ofonething I'd rather eat."
