And why would he expect to see his neighbor’s dog sitter lying on the ground covered in shit? Not exactly an everyday occurrence.
“What the hell are you doing down there?”
There’s nothing I can say or do at this point to make me appear sane or rational, so I simply lift a hand in the air and shrug with a smile.
I just as quickly drop said hand when I see it’s been painted with dog feces. Oh, gross.
Wiping away the shit the best I can on the ground, I snare the flip-flop from the goop with my fingers, as Blackie sniffs at my hand with an upturned nose, as if to say, “lady, you stink.”
Miles opens his leather bag and pulls out a bottle of hand sanitizer and a tissue, gingerly handing them to me, which I gladly accept.
“Christ almighty, Sutton, you’re fucking a mess.”
I’m not sure if he means that literally or figuratively—or maybe both?
Miles gives me another judgmental perusal, his eyes roaming over my body, and for a moment I think he’s about to say something else. But, instead, he shakes his head brusquely, turns abruptly, and walks down the street toward the subway entrance.
And I’m left covered in shit and feel like it too.
So much for changing his opinion of me.
7
Sutton
After the greatdoggie doodoo debacle, I don’t see Miles again until Thursday night when I’m in a much cleaner state of appearance. In fact, I’m freshly showered and wearing a one-piece bathing suit on my way down to the building’s indoor pool and fitness center.
Before leaving on their vacation, Soraya gave me a tour of their building and showed me all the amenities I could use if I were so inclined. The apartment complex boasts a large fitness center, including a workout room, a sauna, and a full-length indoor swimming pool and spa.
Could it get any better than that?
Why, yes, it can.
Because as I walk out the door of the women’s shower and dressing room, I pass by the workout room, where I not only see Miles, but I’m treated to the view of a very sweaty and very shirtless Miles lifting weights.
It’s official. Thursday night is now my favorite night of the week.
Good God, the man is ripped and chiseled sight to behold.
Miles is fit in a way that only the most disciplined men who work out daily can get. His body is lean and tapered, with impressively broad shoulders, flat washboard abs, and has that perfect V-cut, which dips indecently into his gym shorts. My tongue tingles at the thought of running down the smooth lines of thatV.
And unlike the other night when I stood in front of a shirtless Miles, this time I gawk unnoticed, without interruption, at his svelte body. Miles is so busy with his set, his side profile facing the mirror in front of him and not toward me, he doesn’t notice where I stand hidden behind the gym door.
It’s the one and only time I’ve ever wanted to go unnoticed by Miles.
I take the time to peruse the length of his solid body, enjoying the way his muscles chord and bunch tight with every rep he does. The sweat pours from him, dripping down his chest, neck, and back. Clearly an indication of how long and hard he’s been working out.
Once he’s done with the bicep curls, he reracks the weights, reaches for a towel hanging over the barbell and wipes the perspiration from his face with a masculine groan. And like a heat-seeking missile, the sound of that groan finds a target between my legs.
My mind goes wild, as I clench my thighs together, grabbing the doorframe for support to keep myself from falling, or worse, touching myself.
My gaze lowers to the fit of his nylon gym shorts hanging loosely at his hips, and my eyes roam over the curves and slope of his perfectly sculpted ass. Holy hell, I’ve never ogled a man like this in my life. I’m not shy when it comes to my sexuality or the men I’m with, but this is different. I’ve never just stared and enjoyed the view.
Miles, still unaware of my creepy presence, bends forward at his waist and picks up a different set of larger weights. My mouth dries up like a desert at the view. His calves flex, the veins popping at the intensity of his movement, his thighs bulking as he lifts the new set of weights.
There is no other way to describe what is happening to me physiologically than to say I’m getting hot and bothered. I continue to watch his slow, intentional moves as he straddles the incline bench now, my eyes locking onto the visible bulge outline in his shorts.
A little squeak of excitement escapes past my lips, and it’s loud enough to gain attention. Miles lifts his head from the bench, his eyes flare in surprise when he discovers me hiding around the corner.
