I drag myself inside the door and close it behind me. Then I lean back against it, trying to get my breath back to normal. I’m sweating. I'm sure my face is red and hideous.
And there is Matt, dragging the tree like it has wheels at the bottom. He pulls it up and props it against the wall.
“I may haveto move the couch,” he says, contemplating furniture movements like he didn't just carry two hundred pounds up seven flights of stairs, basically alone.
I open my mouth to make suggestions, but no words come out. So I go back to focusing on my breathing.
He looks up at me. His eyes move from my face down to my neck. His gaze gets stuck there. I would look down to see if I have something on my throat if I could peel my gaze away from his dark, stormy eyes.
“You're all flustered,” he murmurs.
“Maybe because we just climbed seven floors, you freak.” I huff out, breaking the sudden tension in the air. I’m starting to feel too hot.
He laughs. A small one, a little distracted. He stares at me for a couple of more seconds before shaking his head. He then starts to push histhree-seater couchall by himself right in front of me. This shit should be censored, it’s so obscene.
At least he's dragging it and not lifting the whole thing.
“Dude, you’ll damage the floor.” Anything to make this slow torture stop.
“Don’t call me dude,” he says absentmindedly.
Okay?
Then he looks down to see the recently revealed patch of wooden floor. “Doesn't look like I will.”
He continues dragging the couch away from the windows while I just stare at his focused expression, eyebrows bunching up, no sign of sweat.
Once he's satisfied, he straightens up and dusts off his hands. Next, he moves the table.
My breathing is back to normal, but now I’m all hot, bothered, and half hard looking at this man doing hard manuallabor with zero effort.
“How much do you bench?” Words leave my lips before I can even process them.
He straightens up and looks at me. “Not a lot,” he says, almost shy.
I take a step towards him, needing to be closer. “That is unnecessarily humble of you.”
“I have to work out for work,” he says, his eyes tracking my movements.
“Must lift a lot of heavy stuff at work,” I say, my voice a little too low.
“Sometimes,” his voice barely audible.
I take another step towards him, and he leans on the back of the couch, his hands grasping it tightly.
I'm going to climb him, my body tells me, before my mind can pitch in.
When I’m just within his reach, the warmth of his body and the smell of pine and body wash consume me. I crave the feel of his hard muscles against me.
“Are you fishing for workout tips?” he smirks.
The first time I saw that smirk, I wanted it wiped off. This time, I can finally do something about it. When our lips meet, a jolt runs down my spine. I feel the softness against my lips, his stubble scratchy on my chin.
My hands immediately go around his neck, and then I am kissing him, my lips moving over his with passion. So soft, so inviting. When I still don’t get the angle I want, I stand on my tiptoes to better access his mouth.
Then I realize a kiss is better when both parties are participating.
Does he not want to kiss me? Did I misread the situation?Oh my god, did I make this awkward?
