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As I shuddered at the thought of how much I’d be hurting tomorrow, Kulti yanked down on the elastic hem of my royal blue running shorts two inches. It was low enough for the elastic band of my pastel blue cotton panties to make an appearance.
“All right,” I muttered and pulled them back up, out of his grip.
Kulti flicked his gaze up, chin still down, my shirt still bunched in his other hand. “I didn’t take you to be shy.”
“I’m not.” Unless it was in front of a camera, that was more along the lines of a complete and total meltdown.
“You’re acting like it.”
A small part of me was well aware that he was just egging me on, challenging me so I’d do what he wanted. I wasn’t shy. I was used to people—okay, physical therapists, chiropractors and masseuses—putting their hands all over me when I was half-dressed. Practicing in sports bras when it got too hot, or when I wanted to work on my tan wasn’t out of the usual either. I didn’t have any real issues with my body except for a few stretch marks in key places along my glutes and quadriceps. At some point, I’d gotten over the idea that beautiful faces and traditional feminine bodies whether they were slender or curvy, were the only standard of beauty in the world. The fact that I wasn’t built slim or voluptuous and would never be anything close to any kind of bombshell, was fine with me now. My body and build were a hard fact.
My arms, stomach and legs were a sign of the craft I’d been working on my entire life. It was my machine: short torso, wide-ish shoulders and muscular thighs. They were mine, and I wasn’t embarrassed of it. I was happy with myself. Sure I’d had people tell me my quads were too big, or that I needed to stop lifting weights before I looked too manly, whatever the fuck that meant. My arms couldn’t be scrawny, I needed my legs to take me to the end of the universe and back, and they did. On the other hand, I’d also had teammates and coaches tell me I should put more muscle on. I could have been more and I could have been less, but I was just me. At some point, you just have to decide to be the best version of yourself, the one you can live with and look at in the mirror day after day.
Eventually, I’d found that person. Not a model and not a physique competitor in a bodybuilding competition. Just me.
Plus, I’d seen Kulti’s ex-wife and his ex-girlfriends. He liked them tall-ish, long-haired with small breasts, just between the line of slim and fit.
Which was not my small C-cups that didn’t shrink no matter how much bench pressing I did, or my hamstrings and butt that only fit into the most stretchy of jeans after ten minutes of wiggling, jumping and tucking. I didn’t even think about my face because that was a whole different matter. It had scars and freckles that I couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything about.
“Fine.” Dropping my hands, I held them up before pulling my shirt over my head. Screw it. What were boobs and some freckles, when he’d seen me without make-up nearly every day for the past two months?
His lids dropped low over his hazel-ish eyes, but he didn’t say a word. Instead he watched me with that heavy gaze as his hands wrapped over my sides just below the smallest part of my ribs. They were cool and firm. I couldn’t help but notice his hands were big. I only just barely managed not to make a sound at his touch. I mean, Marc touched me all the time. It was no big deal.
His hands slid up, his palms so wide and fingers so long, he could almost reach all the way around.
Then he squeezed, and I let out a really unfeminine grunt.
The German didn’t break eye contact with me once, even as his thumbs pressed into the hollow between my ribs, the pads resting on the scraped-up skin above the flat muscle of my abs. My nostrils flared as he squeezed a second time, my heart racing, racing, racing under cover. The hair on my arms prickled in response to him.
Did he need to look at me while he did this? “I’m fine. If anything, they’re just a little bruised,” I said in a controlled voice that didn’t even hint at the fact the big organ right in the center of my chest thought it was heading into Nascar.
One thumb absently stroked a line upward to the elastic band of my bra, which I couldn’t help but remember was literally just a centimeter from the bottom swell of my breast. “You’ll be fine,” he stated confidently like he had x-ray powers that told him everything was all right.
His hands dropped from my stomach.
I swallowed, trying to get myself together. “My, uh, keys are in the side zipper of my bag. Can you grab them for me or pass me the bag so I can get them?”
He shot me a look, reaching for my bag off the ground before unzipping the pocket and fishing my keys out, holding them clasped in his palm. “I would drive you home but…” His lips curled over his teeth, almost as if he were going to smack them.
But.
“Don’t worry about it.” I didn’t ask him if he couldn’t. He couldn’t. It was that simple. I didn’t know why exactly, but the clues were there.
He didn’t even blink or look mildly uncomfortable, I understood that much. He nodded once, his lips still tight. “I’ll follow you.”
Follow me home? “That’s all right. I promise. I can make it home in one piece.”
“I’ll follow you.”
Dear God. “I’m sure you have better things to do. Trust me, it’s fine.”
“I don’t. I’ll follow you home,” he insisted. I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. “Get in.”
That was exactly how I found myself leading an international soccer icon to my garage apartment.
Chapter Seventeen
It was the knocking.
