Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
In fact, I’m so confident she knows what she’s doing that I fully expect her to put me in my place and tell me she doesn’t need any help. Instead, I’m pleasantly surprised that she replies, “I know. But there’s no one fool enough to work out with me this early.”
She recaps her bottle and tosses it to the floor. Tucking her buds back in her ears, she repositions herself under the barbell.
Without asking me for help.
Two options: turn away and go find my own nook to lift weights, or step in to be her spotter without invitation.
I quickly move to the front of the rack so she sees me, holding up a finger to request her to wait a second. She pulls the buds out. “What’s up?”
“I’ll be your spotter.”
“Sure. Thanks.” No smile. No real indication she likes my offer, but she’s not turning it down. She tucks her buds into the side pocket of her leggings, and Christ… she’s cool as a fucking cucumber.
I move behind her as she settles in again, staying close as she steps back from the rack. There’s a mirror in front of us, and it’s startling how much taller I am now that she’s in tennis shoes rather than heels.
While I hadn’t noticed before, I definitely notice as she goes into her first squat that her top is scooped, revealing a fabulous, dark valley of cleavage. She’s got amazing tits, and as I glance down at her ass when she reaches the bottom of her squat, I have to again remind my dick to ignore the woman before me.
My eyes go back to the mirror to look at her reflection, and more than her slamming body, it’s her face that holds my attention. She’s wearing no makeup, but she doesn’t look that different from the other times I’ve seen her, except for the absence of that red lipstick. Her skin is flawless, her eyebrows perfectly arched, and her mouth so lushly shaped, she doesn’t need the lipstick, even though I like the dirty fantasies it inspires.
But the things I like beyond all that are the keen intelligence and strength that suffuses every line and angle within her expression.
Even with her silvery-blond hair pulled back into a messy, casual ponytail that shimmers under the fluorescent lights, Brienne Norcross radiates power and confidence.
When she gets to the eighth squat, she shows no sign of difficulty, and yet I step in just a tiny bit closer, my hands floating near her hips, prepared should she falter.
When she finishes her tenth rep and settles the bar back on its hooks, I say, “Good job.”
She blows out a breath. “Thanks.”
Conversation isn’t free flowing, that’s for sure. I don’t mind, though. I’m enjoying the view.
Brienne ignores her water and moves to the plates on the side of the rack to add more weight.
“How much you going up?” I ask.
“Twenty.”
“That’s a good jump,” I remark as I move to the other side of the rack to grab a ten-pound plate while she does the same.
As we add the discs to our respective ends of the bar, she says, “I’m only going to do eight reps. I can do heavier, though.”
I’ve no doubt, admiring the curves of her ass and shape of her legs.
She moves back into position, and I step in behind her. Once again, my hands hover, ready to help if she needs it.
Because she jumped in weight and is on her third set, I keep my lustful thoughts at bay, pay attention to her stability, and watch for signs of struggle. She’s clean through the first five, but on the sixth, she’s slower coming up. By the seventh, there’s a slight hesitation before she rises out of the squat. Her face screws up and a low growl emits from her chest.
Legs shaking, she starts to rise, and in my heart of hearts, I know she doesn’t need the help, but fuck if I can stop myself. I step in closer, lightly place my palms just above her hips, and guide her to the rack so she can hook the weight.
I immediately release her, because there’s no good reason why I would continue to touch her. And truth be told, if she truly needed the help, my hands would have been on the bar alleviating the weight rather than her hips.
Rather than stepping away from the bar, she turns and ducks under it, facing me. It makes me back up a foot, but not much more, to give her some room.
Chin lifted, her eyes bore into mine, almost with challenge.
I can’t fucking help myself. My hands go to the barbell and I cage her in, just like I did against her office door three days ago.
In a near perfect re-creation, her eyes drop to the collar of my T-shirt and she studies my tattoos. I watch to see what she does, half willing her to pull at the cotton just above my collarbone for a better look. It would be a sign for… well, I don’t know what, but it would be her crossing the line and not me.