Because if I look up, I’m going to notice the flex of his arms, the way his shirt pulls across his back, the way sweat starts to darken the collar at his throat.
And I cannot afford to notice.
Usually, I can avoid this.
Usually, he works out when I’m in the shower, or I find an excuse to be in my bedroom, or I pretend I suddenly need to take out the trash or reorganize a drawer.
But today he was on that call, and he hadn’t even started by the time I was done showering, and then he dropped to the floor like he’d been waiting for the moment I had no escape.
So now I’m stuck.
My fingers hover over the keys for a second. I swallow. My throat is dry.
I force myself to type again, harder this time, as if aggression will make it easier to handle.
These were my rules.
No touching. No flirting. No pet names. No kissing. Normal.
Normal.
I bite the inside of my cheek and keep my eyes on the laptop.
Because I will not let him know how much this is affecting me.
How much I miss when he calls me dolcezza.
I will not.
Even if my brain is still chanting—
I’m going to die.
How am I going to survive this?
He finishes the set like it’s nothing, holds at the top for a beat, then drops his knees and sits back on his heels.
I pretend I don’t exhale like I’ve been holding my breath.
He wipes his forearm across his forehead, then he shifts again to lie back on the ground. He bends one leg, plants his shoe against the ground, and straightens his other leg. Then he…
God Almighty.
He lifts his hips in a slow, controlled motion in a single-leg glute bridge before lowering slowly.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
He does it again, and I nearly moan out loud.
Slow up. Slow down. Like he’s got all the time in the world and no idea he’s committing a felony in my living room.
I can practically feel him pumping that big cock inside me, nice and slow.
I’m so wet I could slide right off this chair.
I need to be done with work. Ineed to be done now.
My eyes snap to my laptop so hard I nearly give myself whiplash.
