Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,7

with, minus the two women aren’t required to perform.

Camryn flutters her brush across the indentions in Dahlia’s skin as she moves.

When Dahlia sweeps into her final side bicep pose, Camryn stands back, tapping the blunt end of her brush on her cheek.

“One more thing.” She leans forward to add one more stroke along the woman’s abs.

Dahlia catches me looking and gives me a big wink. “Is this your man candy or can anybody take a lick?”

Camryn tucks her brush away. “He’s my brother’s training partner.”

Apparently, I don’t even warrant a name.

“He looks nervous.” Dahlia’s voice drops into a low purr.

Camryn steps away, looking between the two of us. “I’d introduce you, but Dahlia, you’ve only got ten minutes to get to pre-stage.”

They air kiss again. The whole thing has been incredible to watch. I wonder if Camryn’s at all perturbed that Dahlia came on to me. If she is, I can’t tell.

Dahlia passes so close to me the gold fabric of her bikini top brushes my arm. “I could eat you for lunch.”

I flash a wry grin. “Probably not enough carbs for a good pump.”

Dahlia’s perfectly arched eyebrows lift in surprise. “A sense of humor. Do find me later.” Then she’s out the door.

In any other circumstance, I might have given that woman my name, number, and the combination to my safety deposit box.

But now I’ve met Camryn. Nobody can hold a candle to her.

Plus, the way she watched our exchange makes it clear she expects me to try to hook up with Dahlia.

And I don’t like being predictable.

“All right, Romeo,” Camryn says. “Get out of those pants and let me see what other disaster awaits. I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Stay away from any company with a last-minute slot on competition day. Every reputable tanner is booked at least two weeks out.”

“Understood.”

A man enters and announces the stage check for the women competitors. The room quickly empties.

Camryn waits for me to shed my pants. I almost trip over them, anxious and unsure. Damn, but she’s getting to me. I toss them on the floor with my bag and hold out my arms.

“Tell me the damage.”

Camryn makes a slow walk around me, tapping the end of a brush against her cheek.

“You smeared it here when you put on your trunks. You should always wear them for your final-day tan to avoid this.” Her hand smooths something low on my ass, and everything in my body goes warm.

My eyes blink shut, and I try to concentrate on something other than her touch. I run through my poses, picturing myself on the stage.

Something bonks my nose, and I open my eyes to see Camryn standing there again. “I have your back acceptable. You shouldn’t lose any points.”

Before I can even get in a thank you, the end of her brush pokes my chest. “But we have to do something about these abs. You have a light patch below your navel in the critical area from belly button to…” She hesitates. “Below.”

I don’t know what she was going to call it, but apparently, it’s a word she doesn’t want to use around me.

I can’t stifle my grin. “You saying my happy trail is too bright?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m saying the lack of consistent color won’t do you any favors with the judges.”

“Do with me what you must.”

Okay, now hold up.

I have to pause the story here.

Because this, my friend, is where things get awkward.

As I look down, my best friend’s little sister gets on her knees in front of my junk. Her eyes flit up to my gaze, and those lashes about kill me.

She starts moving her hands along my belly, her fingers spreading something creamy on my skin.

My brain is no longer on this competition. It is not on my poses, or carbing up, or doing my pump, or where I need to be in half an hour.

I’m high, like I’ve taken a shot of heroin straight to my veins. Every bit of energy in my being is focused on the motion of her hands.

I look down at her duotone hair, the hint of cleavage in that yoga top, and her perfect lips, mere centimeters from my competition trunks.

My swelling trunks.

Oh, shit.

She’s right there.

And these trunks are small.

Like, my-toddler-nephew-could-wear-them small.

I have to be tucked a very precise way to fit.

And things are moving.

Growing.

Shit.

I try to divert my thoughts. Corpses. Zombies. Rotting limbs. The entire cast of Walking Dead stomps through my inner vision.

It’s working, but not enough. I’m closing in