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Of course, the instant I start cooking dinner on my third day here, my host steps into the kitchen, once more strutting around bare-chested. Oh, God, it's hard not to stare when that six-pack practically beckons me to run my fingers over them, and those v-shaped lines disappear enticingly under the waistband of his shorts. It's like an arrow pointing to paradise.
"Do you need any help?" Grayson asks, leaning against the counter with a playful smirk.
I stumble over my words, my face growing hotter by the second. What's wrong with me? I don't stutter, mumble, or drool over guys, yet here I am, making a fool of myself. "Uh, no, I've got it covered. Thanks."
He chuckles, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine. "Alright, just making sure. Don't want you burning down my house or cutting off a finger or anything of the sort."
I dip my fingers under the running faucet and splash his face with cool water, a little revenge for his snide remark.
"Hey, what was that for?" he asks, chuckling and brushing the drops off with the back of his hand in a gesture that somehow makes him look even sexier than before.
"I'll have you know I've been cooking for myself since I was thirteen years old, so I can handle myself around the kitchen."
He smirks, walking closer to me. "That's good to know. Would you mind if I joined you for dinner? That is if you don't mind sharing whatever you're cooking with me."
"You can if you say 'pretty please.'"
What am I doing? Why am I flirting and bantering with him this way? It can only lead in one direction, and I seem to want to rush toward it and never look back.
Grayson raises an eyebrow at my response and crosses his arms, the muscles in his biceps flexing. "Pretty please, huh? Is that how it's gonna be, Ty? Playing hard to get?"
I laugh, my cheeks flushed, my breath hitching in my chest. "I'm not playing anything, Grayson. If you want to eat what I'm preparing, you need to ask nicely."
Grayson's icy-blue eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think he's going to keep on challenging me, but then his smile softens, and he nods, resting those strong hands on my hips, thumbs rolling over the sides of my stomach.
"Alright, Ty. I'll play your game," he says, his voice low and filled with a hint of seduction. "Pretty please, let me have a taste of whatever you're cooking. I promise to be on my best behavior."
I feel a shiver of excitement run down my spine at his words, and I can't help but smile. "Well, with an offer like that, how can I refuse?"
We spent the rest of the evening bantering and teasing each other as we enjoyed the pasta dish I was already going to share with him anyway. There's a comfortable ease between us, a sense of familiarity that makes me forget about the doubts that have been plaguing my mind lately.
I can't help but steal glances at his stubble-covered jaw, his sharp and masculine features, and the way his eyes light up when he smiles. It's all so damn tempting, and my willpower is starting to falter for sure.
"Fine," I say at last, as we sit at the table, our empty dishes between us. "You can help me train, but only a few times; I don't want you thinking I owe you anything or something ridiculous like that."
He chuckles, nodding in approval. "When should we start?"
"Are you free tomorrow morning?"
"For you? Hell, yes."
The next morning, Grayson and I head to his private gym to begin our training session. We’re only just starting to stretch, and I’m already having a hard time keeping my eyes off him. It’s unfair, it really is! Why does he have to look so good in that sleeveless shirt, so tight-fitting I can see every ridge and contour of his muscles? I try to focus on my stretches, but my mind keeps wandering back to the way he effortlessly transitions from one pose to another.
His arms, back, and most of his legs are covered in tattoos, though his clothes hide most of them for the time being. With him walking around half-dressed, though, I’ve seen almost everything except what hides behind his shorts.
"I know I look good, but come on, Ty, focus," he says, a playful smile dancing on his lips. "We've got work to do."
I’m sure my face must be as red as a strawberry as I shake my head, trying to play it cool but failing miserably. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Sure you weren’t.”
God, that smirk is so insufferable. He’s so full of himself, and the worst part is that he’s got the material to back it up. But I’m here to train, not to drool over a celebrity MMA fighter, dammit. As we start to spar, the tension inside me continues to grow and grow. Every time he gets close, every time his hands come into contact with my body, I'm flooded with his heat, his scent, and his towering presence.
Soon, I’m lost in the rhythm of our bodies. People say that dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal urge, but what about sparring? It sure as hell feels intimate, and the adrenaline rushing through my veins as I work up a sweat is doing me no favors.
While Grayson isn’t reckless or violent, he does push my limits, encouraging me to keep going even as drops of sweat begin rolling down my neck and back, even as my muscles start to feel tense and strained. His guidance is firm yet gentle, his touch purposeful when he corrects my stance. Tension builds and builds, and I’m starting to realize it’s going to reach a boiling point sooner rather than later.
Before I know it, Grayson executes a swift move, effortlessly taking me down to the ground. My back connects with the soft mat beneath us, and all of a sudden he's on top of me, pinning me down on the floor. The weight of his mighty body alone is enough to keep me down, but he's gripping me against the floor like he would during a fight, and I feel powerless to push him away. And the problem is, it's not only because he's stronger and larger than me. It's because I don't want this moment to stop.
