But my brain is pretty stuck today, and doesn’t give a shit about getting said life together.
All I can really think about is Elena. There’s her mouth and her breath. Her eyes.
The way her body pressed against mine in that gym at six-thirty in the goddamn morning when we finally crossed the line after weeks of tension bubbling over.
My phone buzzes beside me.
I reach for it lazily, see her name, and I’m already buzzing.
But then I open the message, and I swear something in my soul ascends straight out of my body.
Elena in lacy black lingerie, showing off her curves for days, in a pose that should be illegal in twenty-eight states.
A low, involuntary noise escapes me.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper to my empty bedroom.
Instantly, I’m hard.
Like—no warm-up set needed.
Just straight to max weight.
Just a little something for you, her text reads.
I drag a hand down my face, and actually mutter out loud, “Are you trying to kill me, woman?”
I type back:
Colt: I’m trying to get work done. Trying to work on one of those gigs you helped me find. And, you know. Because Damien is up my ass now after the shenanigans we pulled.
It takes her two seconds to reply.
Elena: Oh really? Sorry to hear that…we’re hiring at our company right now if you need a backup plan and those coaching gigs aren’t biting yet.
I snort.
“Of course you are.”
I pull up her company’s website anyway, because apparently I’m a masochist.
Colt: Sales. Interesting.
Elena: Yeah, it’s boring but it pays well. Corporate, you know? I mean I’m kinda joking. Kind of not though.
Colt: Sounds thrilling.
Total lie.
But I’m more interested in her than the job.
My eyes slide back to her photo.
My entire body lights up again.
Colt: So when am I going to see you again? Since we don’t have a Thursday session this week.
Another fast reply.
