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I've offended her.
I need to explain myself.
“Gentlemen never let women carry things in their presence, even if they're more than capable.”
She scoffs at the statement, and it surprises me.
“But secretly watching them change isn't off limits, I see,” she retorts.
I run my tongue along my teeth, attempting to hide the pained expression that's forming on my face.Fuck, she's direct.
Setting my bag down on the bench, I lean my crutch against the lockers in the makeshift dressing area. She's still standing there, like she doesn't know what to say to me. Not nervous, but more anxious, almost frustrated now because I know what she looks like beneath her shield.
“I'm just trying to figure out why you wear what you're wearing when you have a body like that beneath it.” My gaze falls to her potato sack attire before reaching hers again. “Most girls would flaunt that all over the place, Instagram, Facebook, TikTok...It's just surprising, is all.” I shrug.
Her neck gets red, and she casts her eyes downward. Is she blushing? Did I make the dictator blush?! Oh, she's definitely blushing.
“I'm not here to show off my body. I'm here to work.” She crosses her arms over her chest, tipping her head at me. “What are you here to do?”
Not blushing, she's enraged.
Grabbing the hem of my sweatshirt, I pull it up and off with two hands, messing up my overgrown hair. Standing before her in only a pair of joggers, I tip my head lightly. “Both.”
She clears her throat, immediately looking out the window of the gym. She's refusing to look at me. It's hilarious. She looks at bodies all day, every day. Fit bodies. Bodies that are used to hard work. Bodies that are pristine works of science…until they aren't.
“Look at me,” I demand.
I'm agitated. Of all the athletes she's worked with, suddenly I'm the one that disgusts her, the one she can't stand the sight of. I want to push her and see what it is she's hiding. I want to see that discomfort on her face for my own sadistic reasons.
“Fuck off, Lake.” She turns her head towards the office and walks away.
“Dylan,” I say her name sharply, causing her to stop in her tracks.
Whether she wants it or not, I’m still her client. Her very shiny client whom she is required to appease. I’m using that to my advantage. She stands there, paused, facing away from me. I see her chest inflate and expel all the air in it beneath the sweatshirt.
“Look at me,” I say again, softer this time.
She finally huffs and turns her attention to me again. Her eyes lock on mine, and I see pain beneath those light browns. It surprises me, as I was expecting anger. But there it is in that stare; agony. Agony for something out of her control.
We stare at one another for what feels like minutes before she finally pulls her eyes away from mine. They trail down my neck, and her lips just barely part. My skin is suddenly on fire. My chest becomes heated when I feel her eyes fall there next. She eyes each of the muscles on my abdomen, igniting them with a trail of heat, before her teeth press down on the corner of that lip.
I wonder what this is? I wanted to see her squirm by being forced to endure the sight of me for her own pleasure, but in a surprising turn of events, I'm the one who feels exposed beneath her gaze. It's that physical sensation inching up your skin, crawling its way across your nerve endings with something as simple as a certain someone's eyes upon you.
As if someone slaps her awake from her dream, those eyes fix on mine, the brief look of curiosity replaced with that fire again.
“Nothing I haven't seen before.”
I think I'm choking on air.
I can't seem to make my mouth form words.
“Let's get to work,” she calls over her shoulder.
I follow her to the back room where the massage table is and plant myself upon it.
“Take off your pants,” she says, studying the floor and toying with the loose strands of hair at the base of her neck.
“So soon? Here I thought you'd at least take me to dinner first.” I deadpan.
