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Unfortunately, the comfort that was there in one moment was gone the next. After our talk, he acted as a gentleman, simply saying goodnight and leaving.
I haven't seen Lake in three days. A rescheduled session turned into another one moved, and now we are meeting after hours in order to squeeze in some much needed therapy.
So here I sit in the dimly lit gym, anxiously awaiting the man I haven't seen since he whispered those three little words against my lips.Whenever you're ready.
The doorbell rings, and my spine straightens immediately. Sucking in a nervous breath from the backroom, I quickly adjust my sweatpants and fix my sweatshirt, flinging my braids over my shoulders and trying to keep my cool.
“Back here!” I call out, then run my hands down my face because, fuck, here comes my crush.
I hear a bag drop to the cushioned mat floors before two large hands perch themselves on the doorframe.
“Are you trying to make a career out of getting brutally murdered?”
My eyes bulge at the statement as I turn to face the man of the hour. The man of every hour, who am I kidding?
“You just texted me saying you were two minutes away.” My brows lower at his angered tone.
Is he seriously mad right now?
He marches over to me with heat in his heavy steps. It's not the same soft man who was cradling my hand a few nights ago. Nope, this is the guy that was at my hotel room that night, telling me he'd split my door if I didn't open it. The one angry about peepholes. It’s Flake.
My eyes trail up his statuesque form as he approaches, taking in his cut-off shirt that accentuates his bulging biceps, the ripped part on the sides, low enough to expose the edge of his pecs and the slightest sliver of those rippling abs. My heart hiccups in my chest as he stands directly in front of me now, looking down with those darkened blue eyes hooded with a dangerous passion behind them.
“If I'm not here, leave the fucking door locked until I am,” he says coarsely.
I swallow at his words, staring up in confusion.
Looks like the alpha came back to play. It's the peephole freak, back in action. I hate that I feel my thighs tense up, my knees pressing together at the heat already pooling between my legs like some sort of weak female who likes to get told what to do.Traitorous physical form.
My words, some sort of smartass comeback, are caught in my throat as he abruptly turns away and walks back towards his bag, leaving me in a flurry of lustful drunkenness. Removing a bottle, he takes a quick sip of his Gatorade before wiping the edge of his mouth with his thumb.
Oh, to be that thumb.
He eyes me from a distance as he takes another drink, the roll of his throat mesmerizing as he pulls the bottle from his lips and a ghost of a grin forms.
I just stand there, leaning against the bench, glaring at him with my arms crossed over my chest. It's like he can hear the electricity jump across my internal spark plugs, igniting that power he seems to own.
He tosses his bottle back into his sports bag, then stands with his hands on his slim hips, posing like the sculpted man of perfection he is, but with a playful glimmer in his eyes.
“Missed ya, Chief,” he says with that sexy smirk.
What is breathing?
I've never heard of it, nor do I know how to do it anymore.
“What's on the agenda for today?” he asks, not even pausing for me to respond to his comment.
I clear my throat, trying to find my legs beneath me as I walk towards the cabinets for the exercise bands.
“We are starting with some light squats, crab walks, and even a little stationary bike action if you're up for it.”
“Oh, I'm up for it, Dylan,” he says before dragging his tongue along his lips while those hooded eyes trace my form.
I can feel him trying to visualize what's under these clothes, and the need to remind him has my pulse racing through my weak veins and my nipples standing at attention.Chill the kitty and get to work, you dick-obsessed whore.
Somehow, by the grace of God, we are able to continue the session without too many further distractions. We make small talk about what we've been up to since last seeing each other. He tells me how he's been hanging with Candy and the other teammates. My anxiety creeps in like cracked frost on a windshield as I remember the picture from his Instagram. You know, the one I'd previously stalked, of the boys at his place with their girls.
He goes on, changing the subject, telling me about having to help his mom with some errands or something, keeping it short before he begins interrogating me. Asking me practically every detail of my life since seeing him last.
