Page 114 of Hearts Storm

My laugh sounds more like a strangled hiccup. “Just... crazy morning. You know how it is.”

Sasha hands the clipboard to the front desk assistant. “Mind the desk for a bit, would you, Kim?”

Then, without another word, she grabs my elbow and steers me toward her office.

“Spill,” she demands the moment we step inside. “I’ve been out of my mind waiting to hear about what happened after you left the gala and Logan chased after you.”

“It’s complicated.”

Being around Sasha helps to clear the cobwebs. Helps me not to feel so unsure. She has this feisty energy about her that always cheers me up.

“Complicated is my middle name, girl.” She leans against her desk, raising an eyebrow as she crosses her arms. “So?”

A vision of Logan squeezing my throat while he fucked me into the desk, looking at me as if I’m the only woman in the world, plays out in my head, making my core clench.

“Logan finally came around,” I admit, unable to keep the smile from my face. “And it was…” I cock my head. “What’s the right word? Oh, yeah. Mind-blowing.”

As Sasha grins, her gaze flicks past me to the open door. Expression morphing from surprise to downright mischievous, she snickers. “Speaking of...”

I turn, biting back a groan when I see Logan and Brex standing at the front desk talking to Kim.

Shit.

The next couple of hours are going to be torture. The gym is right across from the room where I’ll be teaching. Not only will I have a sightline to them, but they’ll be able to see everything I’m doing as well.

Flashes of me crawling across the stage toward Brex while Logan brooded at their table across the room fill my head. My body responds instantly, heat pooling low in my belly.

“Hey,” Sasha lifts her hand, tapping at the corner of her mouth. “You’re drooling.”

“I am not,” I whisper-hiss, lying through my teeth, pussy pulsing as I take them in.

Logan is wearing a tight black T-shirt and basketball shorts. Brex’s T-shirt is white; grey joggers hugging his thick thighs and sexy ass.

Fuck. A. Duck.

forty-eight

Sweat drips down the side of my neck as I curl a pair of fifty-pound barbells. The burn in my biceps is exactly what I need after the shit show of a morning I’ve had.

Couldn’t sleep for shit last night thanks to mine and Logan’s discussion, and the only thing keeping me from losing my mind is the steady rhythm of reps and the view from across the gym.

Reyna is teaching a pole dancing class located behind a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass, and from where I’m set up on the bench press, I’ve got a front-row seat.

She’s got about six women lined up around the poles, all of whom are dressed in various states of athletic wear, twirling around them as she calls out directions and encouragement.

I’ve been coming to Summit Studio since it opened a couple of months ago. And if Reyna hadn’t come along, I would’ve been trolling the yoga classes, spin sessions, and the gym, sussing out women who might be down for a quick fuck. It was all just a game to me. One I’m pretty damn good at.

But ever since that night in Portland when she had her mouth wrapped around my dick, tears streaming down her face, I haven’t looked at another woman. Not once.

So, my focus isn’t on them.

It’s on her.

Her long, white-blonde hair is pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She’s wearing a black sports bra and these tiny little shorts that show off every inch of her toned legs. The way she’s moving, all fluid and graceful, makes my mouth go dry every single time she bends over and shakes that fuckable ass.

Captivated, my reps slow as Reyna wraps her hands around the pole, and in one smooth, controlled move, lifts her entire body, spreading her legs into a perfect V, toes pointed, thighs flexed.

As my brain goes offline, one of the barbells slips out of my hand and drops to the floor with a thud, narrowly missing my foot in the process.