She whips round to look at me, seeming even more shocked than I am. ‘W-what are you doing here?’
I slow the treadmill to a stop. ‘I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a big race in three days.’
Her lips twitch. ‘That completely passed me by.’
‘Easily done.’ I smile, wiping my face with a towel. ‘I’m training. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m…’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Stretching.’
She really is something. Her little crop top is straining against her chest like it might pop open if she does a back bend, and I could write an essay on how magnificent her butt looks in those lilac pants. She bows to unroll her mat and it’s nothing short of holy. Hot damn I want to fuck her.
‘I can see that,’ I mutter. I take a swig of water and remember I’d never forgive myself if I savaged my hero’s daughter. Also she’s a journalist. Though principles and logic mean more when I’m not inside a gym that’s too small and too hot.
‘Are you excited for Pagari’s home race?’ she asks as she arches her back in a cat-cow, arse facing me, and I’m seized by a violent craving to bury my face deep inside it. Her tiny top is struggling on all sides, like she’s too much for it, like it’s weak and inadequate, and honestly, that makes two of us.
‘Sure,’ I say, grateful to sound semi-normal and not like I’m at war with my dick. ‘I love Imola. The fans are insane, and I moved to Modena when I was twelve so?—’
She brings her leg forward into pigeon pose andholy Jesus fuck. Her flexibility will be the death of me. Oh the things I’d do to?—
Get a grip, lad. If she looks in the side mirror, she’ll see a roaring semi a couple of metres behind her, which isn’t how any guy wants to introduce their prized possession. And she’s never going to meet him because… Because? I can’t remember right now, but I know there’s a solid reason. Maybe even two.
‘—um, it, um… feels like… home,’ I finish at last, my mouth parched. This conversation’s taking years off my life. I can feel my hairline receding.
‘Is that so?’
I slug more water. ‘Moved for the Young Driver Academy.’ I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
As Minnie switches to the other leg, before I can marvel at this pleasing new angle, I catch her pursing her lips in the side mirror.
It takes my overheated brain a second to get there, but it does.
Oh you wicked, wicked woman.
‘Can you speak Italian?’ she asks, all fluttery eyelashes and fake innocence.
Funny thing about me? I never back down from a challenge.
I give up the pretence of looking anywhere but her arse – like I was that convincing to begin with.‘Abbastanza bene.’Her dad drove with Martinelli for two years. She knows what I said.
Something mischievous glints in her eyes as she holds mine in the mirror. She opens her legs wide and folds forward, elbows resting on the floor.
I manage to catch myself right before my brain fogs over.
Two can play this game, Roberts.
She pretends to be absorbed in her stretch. ‘And how was?—’
‘Need a hand?’ I whisper in her ear.
She jolts at my unexpected proximity. ‘I?—’
‘If I apply a little pressure here,’ my hands find the bare skin between her crop top and trousers, and press lightly, ‘you’ll feel a deeper stretch in your abductors and lower back.’
My dick is directly behind her open butt, which is doing nothing to dampen anything. Only two layers of nylon separate us. Her deep, steadying breaths ripple through me, and I let myself imagine her panting in my ear, forehead nuzzled into my neck, riding my cock like we’re in a Ginuwine song.
‘Does that feel good?’ I murmur, a hairsbreadth from her.
Her swallow might as well be playing through the speakers. ‘Uh-huh.’
