AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Grunting.
Deep and primal.
Intense, animalistic, arousing grunting.
It rips into my dream and pulls me awake. Awakens other parts of me, too.
I blink in the darkness, stir, eyes dry and the spot between my legs growing slick, and see a shadow stirring at the edge of my sight. Rippling muscles, an athletic form.
Moaning, I wonder if I'm not actually awake, if I'm still dreaming, if the sight I'm seeing is some sexy phantasm from the deepest reaches of my subconscious.
Then I flip on the light.
And see Owen, shirtless, wearing only a tight pair of shorts, his body a marvel of masculine motion as he moves from push-ups, to jumping jacks, to countless other calisthenic workouts. Sweat glistens on his back, the shimmering reflection of his exertion highlighting the countless colors of his tattoos.
On noticing the light, he turns. His chest is tattooed. Inky art among slabs of muscle that are slick with sweat beckons my eyes with irresistible force. It's stunning. Surprising. And far sexier than the shadowy figure I thought I was dreaming about.
I've seen Owen shirtless before, sure, but that was when we were younger. I haven't seen the man Owen without a shirt before.
"What is it, Dani?" He says. There's a smirk on his face. A cocky, knowing smirk, as if he can read every dirty thought going through my mind. That look and the realization of what I'm doing — I have to look like I'm having seriously thirsty thoughts about him... and I am... — shocks me awake like a hundred cups of coffee.
"Seriously, Owen? You're working out at this ungodly hour?"
Another smirk.
His hands go to his hips, and the motion stresses the muscles in his chest and makes his abs flex.
He knows.
He knows, and he's reveling in it.
"Marines maintain discipline, Dani. If you want to stay sharp, you have to put in the work while everyone else is asleep. I thought you, as an athlete, would understand that."
I roll my eyes so hard the rotation of the earth changes.
"In what universe does waking up before the sun count as sane?"
"Did you never get up like this to practice? Or did you just get lucky all those years?"
"Luck had nothing to do with it. It was skill and dedication."
"Sure," he says, then he turns, resuming his workout. “Dedication. If you say so.”
I stand up, incensed. "It fucking was and you know it."
"Like I said, I believe you."
It sounds exactly as if he doesn't believe it. As if I won all those games, captained those teams, took those state titles at both the high school and collegiate levels, through sheer chance and dumb luck.
I want to smack him for his smarmy insolence.
"You watched. You saw all those games. I remember, you were in the stands for so many of them. You can't say that I didn't work for that."
"I'm not saying that," he says, while saying exactly that.
I leave my place by the bed, rage and some other warm — no, hot and confusing — emotion burning in my chest, and I storm to where he's doing his cocky push-ups, ready to bash his arrogant head against the wall.
Something stops me short.
