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"I know what you're doing," he said finally, low and almost menacing.
I continued to tread water, then flipped over again, slowing my movements even more. "Do you?"
"Get out of there, will you?" Brandon reached a hand out, beckoning me to swim back.
I just stared at it. "No," I said. "I'm not done with my workout."
I rolled backward through the water once more, then resurfaced to find Brandon standing up. His face looked like murder, but the tenting in his pants spoke of something else.
"Get out of the pool, Red," Brandon said, barely concealing his frustration.
"Stop telling me what to do."
"I'm not joking. Get out."
"No."
"Get out of the fuckin' pool, Skylar!" Brandon shouted, his South Boston accent out in full force. He thrust both hands into his hair and yanked. "Fuck!"
I just kept treading while sounds of the water lapping on the sides of the pool filled the space between us. Brandon stared at me, then dropped his hands.
"Fine," he said as he started to remove his vest. "Have it your way." He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed them both on the lounge chair next to him.
"What are you doing?" I asked as he started pulling off his shoes and socks, which then joined the clothes.
"What do you think?" Brandon snapped as he unbuckled his belt. "You won't come out, so I'm coming in."
"In your underwear?"
He pulled off his pants and threw them on top of his other things. He now stood in front of me in nothing but his boxer briefs, his perfectly sculpted body, including his sizable erection, on display for anyone to see. The reflected light glimmered over the broad lines of his shoulders and pectorals, the v-shaped muscles of his abdomen, the lean, long shapes of his thighs. Now he was the one who looked like a Greek statue.
I bit my lip, willing the heat building in my core to calm down.
"Well, it's either that or nothing at all," Brandon said just before he jumped in with a splash.
Tall as he was, he didn't need to tread water, but he still dipped underwater and surfaced like some kind of mythical sea god. The water glistened on his muscles as he tracked me like a shark.
My legs somehow kept circling, but the rest of me stilled. I wasn't in the mood to be pounced on, as Brandon sometimes did. He often used sex as a Band-Aid, and right now, I wasn't okay with that, even if the water droplets sliding over his pecs were getting me pretty hot and bothered.
My instincts took over: fight or flight. I dove underneath the blue lane barrier and swam to the corner of the pool. Before I could climb up the ladder, though, I found myself caged by two tanned, rock-hard arms.
"I don't think so."
Brandon's voice vibrated in my ear, and I froze. I turned slowly, and he released his grip on the ladder, backing off just enough so that I could turn around. His gaze bored into me like a drill. But it wasn't just the intensity in his eyes that pinned me to the ledge; it was the hurt there as well.
"You can't keep doing this," Brandon said in a low, taut voice.
Around me, his body was pulled tight as a drum. The evening had taken a toll on him too.
"You can't keep running away every time I do something you don't like."
"I don't––"
"You do," he cut me off gently.
We were close enough that he didn't need to raise his voice. Around me, his muscles flexed even more.
"Every time. My office. The airport. After you found out about Miranda, about Messina's payoff. That night at the club. And now tonight. If I railroad, Red, you run."
