The safe house gym was a converted second bedroom: two treadmills, a free weights rack, a battered old rowing machine with duct tape holding the seat together. I hit the treadmill for the clean head it gave me. Running was the only time I could turn off the part of my brain that counted risk like beads on a string.
Today, I needed it more than ever.
So I ran.
Five miles at an even pace, every step another line item: the Bratva, the gap in the south perimeter, the fact that Sal was right and I was not built for restraint. Every half-mile, I thought about her—how she’d look on her knees, how her thighs would shake when I told her to open them, how her mouth would sound when I made her say please. Every half-mile, I told myself to let it go.
But five miles wasn’t enough.
By mile six, my shirt was glued to my back and my hands ached from clenching the handles.
I hit the stop button and coasted down. My pulse ticked in my ears.
That was when I realized the door was open.
She stood in the doorway in leggings and a sports bra, hair braided back. The leggings were a crime—matte black, spray-painted to her skin, high-waisted and smooth. The bra was blue, low enough at the neck that every breath shifted the line of her cleavage.
She took in the room, the sweat on my body, the numbers on the readout. Her eyes skipped over everything except my chest.
She said, “Can I join you?”
I wiped my face with my shirt. “It’s your gym, too.”
She stepped inside, bare feet silent on the mat. She climbed onto the other treadmill, set her phone on the shelf, and dialed up a run.
The first minute was slow. She stretched her arms overhead, then back, arching her spine until I heard it pop. She looked at me in the mirror, held my gaze for a second, then let the treadmill pull her forward.
She ran like she did everything else—no wasted movement, nothing extra. After ten minutes she found her pace and settled in, the beat of her shoes lining up with mine. The room filled with the smell of clean sweat, the faint tang of her body cutting through the air.
I tried to lift some weights, I really did. Did everything I could to keep focused and not gawk at her. But I couldn’t help it. I watched her in the mirror. She watched me, too, eyes flicking from my face to the readout and back.
Twenty minutes in, she started to sweat in earnest. The bra darkened at the edges, the valley of her breasts catching the light. The leggings shimmered with every stride. She kept her lips slightly parted, every breath a little louder than before.
I caught her looking at me. Twice.
She didn’t smile, but there was a hitch in her rhythm, a deliberate trip of the heel that said she wanted me to see her, wanted me to watch.
I pretended to check my phone. I scrolled nothing, thumbed through empty emails. She caught me doing it and smirked.
After forty minutes, she stopped the belt and stepped off. She walked a slow lap around the room, wiping sweat from her brow, then stretched out against the wall. She leaned back, hands over her head, ribcage rising under the skin.
I tried not to stare. I failed.
She came over and stood in front of me. Her chest heaved, a deep flush running from her collarbones to her jaw. She didn’t say anything. She just held out a towel.
I took it. Her hand lingered on the edge, fingers brushing mine.
I said, quiet as I could, “Behave, Angela.”
She leaned in, just enough for me to feel her breath on my neck.
She said, “Absolutely not.”
She left the towel in my hand. I watched her go, ass swaying with every step.
When the door closed behind her, I stood there, towel pressed to my face, and counted to ten.
Then I went and ran two more miles, just to bleed it off.
