tan legs going on for what seems like miles. She looks fucking stunning. I wouldn’t tell her that out loud, but my dick doesn’t seem too concerned with any attention he might get. I groan, rubbing my face with both hands and stand to the side, arms clasped in front of course, in an attempt to conceal my problem.
Controlling my erections have never been a damn problem for me. I’ve always had the ability to remain stoic, keeping my thoughts, fantasies, and reactions to myself. It’s one of the good traits of an FBI agent, but all my skills, all the things that made me a great agent once upon a time mean absolutely nothing when I’m around this woman.
She’s driving me nuts. I told Wren as much yesterday, but it has much less to do with her running and everything to do with how spiked my adrenaline is when I catch her. I was thrilled last night when I noticed her gone, having Wren tap into cameras all over the city when the signals started bouncing off one another due to the close proximity of the buildings. Knowing exactly which bar she went into last night is also why he was witness to the kiss we shared. Clearly, there’s no honor among men who break the rules. He’s the fucking champ at it.
Her disrobing was bad but witnessing her stretch. God help me.
Her stomach muscles flex and roll as she bends, her ass pointed directly at me. I stand appreciating the view until I see the man she was talking to—by this point I realize he’s the instructor—watching the front part of her. I know what her perfect damn tits look like in that sports bra, but I haven’t been privileged to seeing her bend over. I swear if she falls out of that damn flimsy thing, I’m going to end up in jail for assault.
My focus is on her, and I don’t imagine there’s anything short of an explosion or gunfire that could make me pull my eyes from her body when she lifts herself up and swings around that damn pole. The song changes, pulsing out a rhythm built to seduce. A song so sexual, I can feel the throb of it in my lower abdomen.
I’m tortured by the sight of her for over an hour, my eyes never drifting from her exquisite form. I no longer notice the instructor except when he gets close to critique her. I don’t notice the other women swinging around. She’s all I fucking see, and when she’s done, pressing kisses to that asshole’s face twice again, all I can focus on is the rivulets of sweat dripping down her neck, teasing the swells of her breasts, and disappearing into the fabric. I want to lick it away. I want to clean her entire body, top to bottom, with my tongue. I want to press a hand between her shoulders, lean her against one of those shiny poles and shove myself so damn deep inside of her that she—
“I’m ready to go.”
I swallow, dragging my eyes from the exposed skin on her abdomen to her face. Sweeping a hand to the side with an overexaggerated bow, I indicate that I’ll follow her out. I throw an I’ll-kill-you-if-you-watch-her-leave look over my shoulder at the instructor, but find him talking to another woman. Does he even know how close he came to having his face rearranged?
And that’s the crux of the situation, isn’t it?
I’m jealous. Hell, I’m a trained professional. I know what I’m feeling. I also know that it’s unjustified. One kiss doesn’t give me the right to get pissed when she talks to another man. Hell, I told her it couldn’t happen again, and I mostly meant it.
I don’t own her. I don’t want to own her. Just the thought makes my lip curl up because I can admit that I don’t want anyone else to have her either. How fucked up is that?
I should’ve answered Deacon when he asked me again if I wanted to come home. I avoided the question, and by doing so gave him my answer. No, I don’t want to go home, but I don’t see how I can keep my sanity by staying.
Some would say to get it out of my system, to do with her exactly what we both want, but there’s the trouble. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that having her that way once won’t be enough. I’m damn near