It’s hard not to stare at that smile. Especially those bright pink lips surrounding it.
I slow without meaning to.
I wave back—and immediately regret it.
She passes me with a soft “Morning.”
I nod like a man whose brain hasn’t just short-circuited.
I keep running.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t turn around.
I turn around.
She’s walking away now, easy stride, hips swaying in a way that I have no business noticing. The leggings she’s wearing should be illegal. Or banned from wooded trails where men are trying to mind their own business.
I face forward again, my jaw tight.
It’s fine.
Everything’s fine.
I finish my run in peace, spotting no one.
Including Ivy.
I’m not sure how I feel about it. I tell myself I’m relieved, but there’s a flicker of disappointment as I head up the deck steps and enter through the patio door.
I head straight for the shower, hoping hot water will burn the image of her in those leggings from my brain.
Down, boy,I lecture the part of my anatomy that very much likes Ivy in tight pants.
Setting the temperature on hellfire, I stand beneath the scalding spray, wincing and cursing.
Butit doesn’t help.
I back the temperature to a more manageable one and stand beneath the spray, willing myself to relax.
I glare at my hard dick. “This is ridiculous. Stop it.”
He absolutely does not listen.
Gritting my teeth, I wrap my hand around myself. “Fine. But only because you’ve been neglected. We arenotthinking about her.”
As I stroke myself from base to tip, I shake my head. If anyone overheard me, they’d think I was insane.
I grab the body wash and pour a generous amount into my hand, then stroke myself again.
That feels so much better.
Instantly, the image of the dark-haired, green-eyed woman I saved at the bar enters my head. The one who has my sweatshirt. The one who shall remain nameless because I’m not thinking about her.
Okay, I’m a liar.
I am thinking about her.
