But he did it all week, and today is Friday.
I’m nearly done with work and just have a few more things to sort out before shutting down for the weekend. But, like an idiot, I decided it would be easier to get them done in the apartment.
Well, easier for Antonio, really.
So, I shut down early at work, packed up my laptop, and brought it home.
The moment we walked into the apartment after work, Antonio’s phone rang, so I peeled off to take a shower. Enjoy some quiet alone time. Because my brain felt like sandpaper and my nerves were raw.
I heard snippets of his conversation before hopping in the shower—some Italian, some English. It was the kind of tone that someone used when talking to family.
But, when I finally came out, hair damp, skin clean, and my most comfortable, unimpressive clothes on—no shorts since that first night—he was off the phone.
And doing push-ups.
In the middle of my apartment.
I stopped walking for a second, my hand tightening on the laptop against my side, because the sight of him made heat pool between my legs. It took everything in me to walk across the room and to the kitchen table calmly, like I was unaffected.
I’ve gotten no work done since I sat down.
Because Antonio is doing push-ups, and it’s frying my brain all over again.
He’s in a fitted T-shirt and dark athletic pants, because of course he is, and his body moves with that controlled strength that makes me want to moan in need. He lowers, chest close to the floor, then pushes back up on the tips of his fingers like gravity is optional for him.
His breathing is steady.
Mine is not.
I shouldn’t be watching. I know I shouldn’t be watching. I can feel the heat crawling up my neck like my body wants to betray me in all sorts of fun ways.
But I can’t help it. He looks so damn good.
And I feel bad.
Because he hasn’t been able to get to a real gym since he’s been here, and that’s my fault in a way. I can’t exactly take him into my building’s gym. No one is supposed to know he’s here. That was the whole point—the whole agreement.
The first day, he checked in with the front desk. Then he walked back out and came back in with his two duffel bags discreetly.
Now he’s a secret.
My secret.
That thought is definitely doing some dirty things inside me.
I shift my eyes back to my laptop and pull up the last of the work I need to finish—emails, a report draft, loose ends I refuse to let hang over my head into the weekend.
If I can just finish it, if I can just shut my brain down and get it done—
Maybe I can survive this.
Antonio’s breath wooshes out softly as he pushes up again.
I keep my eyes on the screen.
Itype.
I do not look up.
