“To extinction?” he asks.
I give him my biggest groan yet. “Fine,” I grunt.
If my guess is right and Giles is doing all this to get me to train harder, he’s a fucking genius. Because it’s working. It’s working really well. I push out fifteen upward thrusts without even thinking about it. My glutes burn, my legs shake and my hips ache with the weight, but I keep going. I keep on going until I’m at twenty-five and then I look at Giles.
His stare is fixed on my hips going up and down, up and down and fuck, if he doesn’t look hungry. I stupidly, so very stupidly look down the length of his body and see the front of his shorts possibly look a little fuller than they normally do, or maybe I’m just getting blurred vision from the exertion.
Unable to tear my eyes away from the possible bulge and unable to distract my own body with any more thoughts of my mama’s ravioli, I keep thrusting up. Even as I feel blood rush to my dick. Even as I feel myselfstart to harden. Even as I let myself fantasise what it would be like to be thrusting up against Giles, maybe into him, or fuck, thrusting in time with his thrusts behind me…
“Figlio di puttana.”
“Don’t hurt yourself, Marcello,” Giles says and I look up at his face, but his eyes haven’t left my crotch and I know, I just know he can see I’m hard.
I don’t know why but this helps me knock out another four thrusts and then I hold it. I hold my elevation, feeling my dick press up against the foam wrapped around the bar, and I sense Giles eyes on me there. I would give all the money in the world to know what he’s thinking as he looks at me.
“Twelve, eleven, ten.” He keeps his stare on me, but he leans closer to my face so I can hear him count down clearer. “Nine, eight, seven. You’ve got this, Marcello.”
I can’t even form words. Instead, I whimper.
And that snaps Giles’ attention right up to my face.
He holds my eye contact as he continues to count down. “Six, five, four. You’re doing so well.”
I whimper again and it would be a lie to say it’s a noise I couldn’t have stopped. Giles eyes narrow but don’t let me go.
“Three,” he says and I feel a bead of sweat slide down the side of my face.
“Two,” he adds and he licks his lips.
“Vaffanculo per avermi fatto questo,” I say and I don’t know if I’m talking about the weighted bridge lifts, my erection or the way he’s looking at me like he can see into my soul.
“One,” he says, so slowly and deliberately, it’s torturous.
Yeah, I reckon he definitely likes to stay in control in the bedroom.
“Fuck,” I moan as I drop back to the mat. I push the bar away from my hips and it rolls down my body, but only after it knocks awkwardlyagainst my erection. It’s an error of epic proportions because the foam pads fall to the side, off my body, and now there’s nothing there to hide my hard-on.
I decide to do the mature thing and close my eyes and pray for a black hole to swallow me up and end it all.
But that doesn’t happen. What does happen is I slowly start to get my breath back, and I hear Giles moving beside me.
“Marcello?”
“Yeah?” I say, refusing to open my eyes. That black hole could just be taking its sweet time. Maybe it has ADHD like me and sucks at time-keeping.
“Open your eyes,” he says softly and smoothly, as if the words are made from melted butter.
I do so slowly, awkwardly, blinking as if to adjust to the light but really I just don’t know if I can stand another second of his intense eye contact.
“I think you should ask me properly this time.”
“Ask you what?”
“What you suggested on Sunday,” he says still as cool as a cucumber.
My breath halts and I have to swallow as if to kickstart my body into taking in oxygen again.
“About you and me, fucking?” I ask, eyebrows high.
