Holding (Moving the Chains #5) - Kata Cuic Page 0,3
up, he’s smirking at me. This is a test. If I fail, I’ll be shown the door.
Vittoria Russo, you can do this.
The mantra I’ve been repeating in my head ever since this mission was dumped in my lap propels my feet forward. A smirk of my own creeps across my lips. This isn’t so hard.
Mitchell is obviously the only guy continuing his workout rather than staring at me as I cross the room.
He doesn’t stop his almost violent leg movements even when I stand in front of him. As Dragon Man pointed out, he’s wearing earbuds, obviously not paying attention to anything except his grueling workout. After several moments of a silent staring match, his chest heaves with an irritated grunt.
He pulls the earbuds out of his ears and only now seems to notice everyone watching us. “Is this another one of your stunts, Templeman?”
The guy beside him practically vibrates with laughter. His words come out panted. “I have nothing to do with this. I swear.”
Even with his face twisting in a weird mixture of what I’m guessing is contempt, fury, then finally resignation, Mike Mitchell is a darn fine specimen of the male species. He’s apple pie, bonfires on a cool fall night, and the epitome of what most women imagine when they hear the words “football player.” In short, he’s an all-American stud whose good looks almost overshadow his annoyed expression. His full lips form an upside-down horseshoe. With that kind of expressive control, he’s probably a fantastic kisser.
He drags a hand through sweat-soaked hair that’s a much lighter shade of brown when it isn’t wet. From what I’ve seen of his team photos, he keeps it neat and doesn’t go overboard with products or style like the kind of guys who probably spend more time on their hair in the morning than I do.
Like Ben does. Or maybe he doesn’t anymore. I wouldn’t know because he made it perfectly clear that we needed a break to find ourselves. Whatever that means.
I snap out of my daze when Mitchell speaks.
“I don’t need it, guys. Really.”
A bark of laughter redirects my attention to the doorway. The same man who tested me stands at the entrance of the room like some sort of guard dog, his arms crossed over his chest. “Oh, we think you do.”
Mike throws his arms in the air, clearly frustrated. “Why? My numbers are solid. I’m pulling my weight—”
A round of boisterous laughter cuts him off. Another player shouts, “Yeah, because this is the weight room!”
He rolls his eyes at that admittedly horrible joke. “Butt out of my personal life, will you?”
“Oh my God,” Mitchell mutters, rubbing his forehead. Then louder, “I’m not gay! Give it a rest already!”
“If you’re not gay, then explain your lover’s spat with Fossoway last week.”
My ears perk up because that name is precisely why I’m here. I open my mouth, but I don’t get a chance to speak.
“Gay or not, you need to get laid, man!”
“How long’s it been? Years?”
“Are you a Boy Scout?”
“Relax and live a little! You’re in the big leagues now! Enjoy it!”
With each additional piece of life advice, Mike’s face gets redder and redder. I’m not sure whether it’s from anger or embarrassment. Both of which I totally empathize with. He finally explodes, leaping off his bench like his butt might actually have problems. In that it’s on fire. He stands so close to me; I can actually see the split second of hesitation in his eyes.
In the next heartbeat, my theory is proven right. So right.
If only it wasn’t so wrong.
That thought is impossible to maintain when strong, capable hands grip my hips and knead until I’m nearly purring. A decidedly inelegant squeak escapes my throat as I’m hauled against six feet of solid muscle. The instinct to let my hands explore every plane and deep ridge forces me to fist his damp shirt to stave off my baser instincts. Firm lips and a warm, soft tongue obliterate any other attempt at sensibility. If I’ve ever been kissed like this, I don’t remember it. I’m not sure I’ll remember my own name after even one more minute of this exquisite torture.
Thankfully, he pulls away before I can completely lose myself.
All my hopes for salvation go up in flames as his mouth migrates to the sensitive spot just below my ear, his lips tickling my prickly skin as he speaks. “Follow my lead.”