Code Name: Ghost - Sawyer Bennett Page 0,43

talk with him now.”

“Good luck,” she replies.

♦

The fourth-floor gym has been a haven for me over the last several months. I’ve always been into working out, even as early as high school where I played volleyball and ran track. My dedication to fitness is how I knew I’d be a good soldier, and why I wasn’t intimidated by joining the Army. The Jameson gym is how I got the baby weight off after Avery was born, and I still use the facilities whenever I get the chance. For the most part, my workouts have to be done at home because of Avery, but whenever I have extra time, I can be found at the gym—either running on a treadmill or doing strength training with weights.

The facility is huge, taking up half the fourth floor, and it has every conceivable piece of equipment anyone could ever want, including a half-court basketball area. It’s why I don’t see Malik immediately when I walk in. It’s midafternoon and fairly deserted, since most people prefer early morning or after work to hit the gym.

Finally hearing the clank of metal from where the power racks are located, I head that way. I have to wind through a few rows of stationary bikes, stair climbers, and treadmills before I see him doing chest presses.

He’s flat on his back, pumping heavy stacks of plates. Not wanting to disturb his concentration, I move in a bit closer, but I remain out of his periphery. When he’s finished and has the barbell racked, he sits up to straddle the bench.

Malik doesn’t see me right away. Instead, he twists to the left to grab a towel. I take a moment to appreciate the unfettered view of his body, which I’m not ashamed in the least to admit I find attractive. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging gym shorts. He’s lean, which is an improvement over emaciated. The muscles of his bare chest are starting to build up again, and there’s beautiful definition in his shoulders and biceps. There’s a thin sheen of sweat over his body, but he only uses the towel to mop his face.

When it falls away, he sees me, and his entire body goes still.

I close the distance between us. The closer I get, the more alarmed his expression becomes. I guess he knows I’m here to discuss what happened in my apartment the other night.

Malik rises from the bench, dropping the towel. I come to a stop just a few feet away from him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies hesitantly.

“You’re back.”

“Just a few hours ago,” he says, then lamely adds, “I was going to come see you—”

I hold my hand up to stop him because his intentions, or lack thereof, are unimportant to me. I’d thought to come in here and demand we sit down to have a meaningful discussion about what’s going on between us.

But, to be honest, everything in my gut straight up to my heart is telling me that talking might not be the right course right now. We’re in a gym—seemingly alone since I didn’t spot anyone else—and Malik is half-naked and looking incredibly hot.

Sometimes… words can be overrated.

I step into him, my hands settling on his damp chest. The muscles under my fingers leap, and a low rumble emits from within him. Slowly, I drag my gaze up until my eyes lock on his, which are darkened, confused, and a little feral.

Purposefully, I slide my hands up.

Over his collarbones, then along the sides of his neck.

Fingertips touching the damp ends of his hair, thumbs along his jaw. My gaze narrows on his mouth, and there’s no way he can mistake my intent.

I pull him down to me… or attempt to since he resists.

Letting my eyes drift up, I feel my heart squeeze when I see the conflict on his face. Never have I seen someone want something so much, yet the clear refusal to go there is obvious.

Stroking my thumbs along his stubble, I murmur, “Trust me, Malik.”

Immediately, I feel the tension in his neck release as he does exactly as I request.

He trusts me.

I rise onto my tiptoes, exert the tiniest amount of pressure with my hands, and draw Malik’s mouth down to mine.

At first touch—his lips against mine—I know within my heart of hearts there is nothing wrong with this. It’s an exploratory meeting of our mouths, soft and hesitant.

Hopeful.

Malik’s breath stutters… a shaky exhale into my mouth.

The last bit of control he’s giving up.

His arms come up, knocking