“There’s a storm coming,” he replies, his gaze locked on mine. “I didn’t want to get stuck in traffic and leave my wife alone for too long.”
“That wouldn’t have been a problem.”
I pull myself up and he matches my rhythm.
Up.
Down.
Up again.
The movement brings us closer at the top, foreheads almost level. His breath caresses my face, minty and warm, and his pupils flare.
The muscles in my shoulders burn, but I refuse to show weakness.
At the top of the next pull, our noses almost collide and, for a racing heartbeat, it feels less like exercise and more like he’s teasing me.
I think about dragging my tongue across his lips, then lower, release the bar and head for the treadmill.
“When’s the storm hitting?” I ask, setting the incline and speed to a decent walking pace.
“It’s already here,” he says.
It’s hard to tell what the weather is like outside when the windows have a dark tint and the ambient lighting holds the gym in a relaxed glow.
While I walk, he sets up the weights at his rig and lifts heavy.
He curls heavy dumbbells, his forearms flexing, veins popping, and ink shifting with the movement.
I look away.
Then glance back.
His jaw tightens as he lifts, his focus locked on his form. Itell myself to stop watching and mutter a curse when his shirt rides up a fraction as he changes the movement and reaches overhead.
As I’m gawking, he glances at me. A flick of his eyes and a faint smirk twitch when he catches me.
He racks the weights and wipes his face with a towel, his gaze still locked on mine.
The lights flicker and a roll of thunder booms.
“That’s me done,” I say.
The treadmill comes to a stop, and I hop off, then do a few stretches to release the stiffness in my muscles.
I don’t look back as I head to the female changing rooms and strip. Even though my body feels good after working out, my veins are thrumming and the throb in my core is pulsating.
All I wanted was some time to be me, and my infuriating husband had to show up and parade around like the full-blown Bronx Viacava experience.
I grab a towel and move to the shower, turning on the hot water and waiting for it to heat. The lights flicker again, and a distant rumble of thunder follows.
Ignoring the storm, I step under the jets and stand there while the water pummels my hard-worked shoulders.
The lights blink once. Twice. Then cuts out.
Darkness swallows the room. The water runs cold a second later, and I gasp at the shock, stumbling back a step.
“Fuck!” I yelp, not able to see a damn thing.
