“Yeah, fine,” I clap back, trying to hide the way I shake them out when he’s not looking.
He brushes his dark hair of his face as he laughs. And Dante laughing is fast becoming one of my favorite things. The sound is low and deep, and it resonates over my skin, making me smile.
Next, we take turns on the seated back row machine, and I try not to feed his ego when he loads the weights on his sets, but it’s impossible to look away from the hundreds of muscles that ripple on his body when he works out.
“You want me to wipe your mouth, baby?” He talks at me using the mirror, so he doesn’t stop mid set.
“What?”
“You’re drooling,” he teases and lets the hand go, and the weights crash back home, to make a point to wipe his mouth.
I blaze red and don’t answer. I also try really hard not to laugh at him, but it’s near impossible.
“Last exercise, then we can go shower together.” He winks as he climbs off the seat.
He drags an adjustable weight bench over to face the mirrors, then brings over weights for me and him. And a camera tripod. I don’t think too much of it; obviously he’s going to film us to talk about form and style later.
Once everything is set up, he stands in front of me, looking like he’s up to no good.
“Park your ass there,il mio tutto.” He points, and I grumble under my breath the whole way over to him.
He squats without effort, scooping up my weights with one hand and passing them over. Of course, they weigh a fucking ton, but there’s no way I’m going soft on him now.
Dante stands behind me and talks me through which muscles to engage and when to breathe, and I try, I really do, but my arms are jelly.
“Drop them, and show me your form,” he says. He spots me from behind while I pretend I’m lifting weights, before he stops me, my arms hovering mid-air. “Here’s the problem.”
I look at my arm, trying to see it how he does.
“What?” I ask, confused. I’m even more confused when he pulls off his training tank and I’m left gawking at his incredible physique.
Before he answers, he catches both my hands and twists them so they’re behind the seat on the bench, and then he winks, using his T-shirt to tie my arms so I can’t move them.
“Oh,” I huff. “Great, now I have to escape?”
“No chance.” He laughs. This time, his rumbling is deeper, huskier, and my eyes fly to his face, but he’s moving, his back to me. Even when he reenters my field of vision, I process his actions slowly, realizing too late what he’s done.
I try to move my legs, but I can’t. He’s used his wrist straps to tie my legs to the seat support. “Dante?”
“You worked so hard, baby, now I’m going to give you your reward,” he murmurs, looking down at me.
“Yeah? What’s my reward?”
Instead of answering, he kneels between my knees before freaking me the fuck out when he pulls out a hidden knife. Except, when he sees the look of shock on my face, he pulls back slightly, like I offended him.
“Well, that’s rude,” he grouses as he sits on his heels, staring at me with wide eyes. “You don’t trust me?”
“Dante! You pulled a fucking knife out of nowhere!”
“Not nowhere, it was under the chair,” he says, surprised by my shock. “I thought you saw it. I’ve also got another one stuck to the back of the water cooler. There are about ten guns dotted around the room, so in case shit really hits the fan, I’ve got a fighting chance of killing the fuckers.”
And then he stops, his head tipping to the side, and it’s like the longer he thinks about it, the more offended he is.
“I thought you and I were on the same page.” He looks at me with even more suspicion. “Clearly, we aren’t, though, because you just ruined me with a look. You seriously thought I was going to stab you? I’ve got to say, that guts me.”
“Perhaps a heads-up before you pulled out a goddamn Rambo knife would have helped!” I bite back, fighting against the restraints.
He totally ignores my struggles. “Nah. See, when you trust someone, they can fire a rocket launcher your way, but youwouldn’t flinch because you know they’d never hurt a hair on your head.”
