The last time I was in there was about two months ago when I brought in Chinese food and watched a reality show on the TV because my upstairs TV wasn't working.
It's a place I can be alone, so in this moment, I'm glad I had the damn thing built.
I push open the door, and I stop dead in my tracks.
Octavian.
He doesn't see me at first. He's lying back on the bench press, shirtless, in nothing but a pair of black shorts, lifting what looks like every single plate I own.
His shorts hang low on his hips, and the rest of him is, God, the rest of him is a masterpiece of muscle and ink. Script in what might be Romanian flows across his ribs, along with other images and designs. He's completely covered.
Holy. Hell.
His abs ripple with every rep, sweat gliding down the carved ridges of his torso and neck. His chest rises and falls in deep, even breaths, and his arms flex as he steadies the bar and presses it up again.
I stand there like an idiot, watching him work, the way his body moves. I'm completely still, hypnotized by the sight of this brooding Romanian terminator working out like it's the only way to quiet the demons in his head.
Heat, flat out, no denying it, pools low in my stomach, and I'm definitely getting completely aroused by this perfect specimen of a man.
He finishes his set and sits up, grabbing a towel and wiping sweat from his face and neck. His muscles shift with the motion, every line defined, it's like a sculpture that's moving.
I can't look away.
Then he looks up, and our eyes meet.
For a moment, neither of us moves. His dark gaze locks onto mine, unreadable, and I feel exposed, like he knows exactly how long I've been standing here. Like he can read every inappropriate thought that just ran through my head.
"You feeling better?" he asks casually, like this isn't some thirst trap come to life.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to step into the room like this is normal. Like I wasn't just standing in the doorway gawking at him. "Yeah. I didn't expect you to be down here," I say, suddenly aware of how tight my leggings are.
He stands, and the room instantly feels smaller. His massive frame, all six-foot-six of solid muscle and intimidation, fills the space. He wipes more sweat off his chest, dragging the towel across his abs, and I realize my mouth has gone dry.
"I got restless," he says, tossing the towel aside as he walks over to my dumbbells. "Had to get a little physical time in."
Physical time. Jesus Christ. What is that, some kind of euphemism for sweating so much he releases pheromones that make women's ovaries drop an egg?
I force myself to look at his face instead of his body. It doesn't help. His jaw is sharp, his eyes too intense, and there's a faint sheen of sweat on his temple that makes me want to?—
Stop. Calm down.
I cross the room and step onto the treadmill, setting it to a slow walk. "So you were worried about me?" I joke, instantly regretting how I sound.
I don't know why I say it. Maybe because I need to break whatever this tension is between us. Maybe because seeing him like this makes me feel bold in a way I shouldn't.
He doesn't answer me, just looks at me in the mirror, and doesn't deny it.
He picks up a set of dumbbells that look absurdly heavy and starts curling. His biceps flex with each rep, the tattoos on his arms shifting with the movement. I can see the veins in his forearms, the way his grip tightens around the weights, the controlled power in every motion.
I focus on the digital screen in front of me.
Don't look. Don't look.
This is fine. I'm fine. I'm just working out in my own basement with a half-naked Romanian bodyguard who makes my knees weak. Totally normal.
I look.
He's still staring at me, but now there's something softer behind the usual steel.
