Page 51 of Perfect Boy

Reaching inside the bag, he takes my leggings out and brings them to my feet. Slowly pulling them onto my ankles and up my legs. Reaching around me, he tugs me forward onto my feet. As he yanks them over my ass, his fingertips glide over my asscheeks, and I swear I moan.

Leaning down, he finds my oversize crewneck sweatshirt in my bag, and he pulls it out. “Arms up,” he whispers.

Even though I’m fully capable of dressing myself, I play along because there’s something so comforting about him taking care of me.

Pulling the sweatshirt over me, he untucks my hair and brushes it away from my face. Grabbing my sandals from the bag, he pushes me back to sitting and puts them on my feet before running his fingertips up my ankles, under my leggings. Goose bumps cover my body, and every part of me aches for him.

When he’s finished, he takes my high heels to my locker, closing it behind him. Returning to me, he looks down, his eyes hooded.

“Ready?” he croaks, his voice tortured.

“Yeah,” I say—or I try to. But the word barely squeaks out.

When he holds his hand out, I take it and stand. I don’t want to just take his hand. I want his hands all over me. I need him so badly right now. But instead, I settle for a kiss on my forehead before I follow him out the door.

Unsure of what the night holds.

Ten minutes later, we pull in front of the building that houses a swimming pool used for the Brooks University swim team, as well as a gym, I think. The dancers don’t use this building for our workouts. Instead, we use a smaller one that’s located on the opposite side of campus.

“Working out tonight?” I give him a look, scrunching my nose up. “I don’t know if you saw me back there, but I’ve done my workout for the day. It’s called working the pole.”

“There’s a pretty nice hot tub in there,” he says, holding his key card up. “And this place should be vacant this time of night.”

Soaking in a hot tub sounds so nice right now, but I frown. “I don’t have my suit with me.”

Pushing his door open, he grins. “Live a little, wifey. Wear that thong and bra. It’ll make things more interesting.”

I glance down, knowing what I’m wearing under this oversize sweatshirt, and I cringe. “Watson…I just got done with my shift at Peaches. You saw my bra and underwear. They literally show my nipples and my entire ass. What if someone walks in?”

“They won’t,” he assures me. “I’ve come here enough on nights when my back is bothering me to know that after nine, this place is a ghost town. Besides, where the hot tub is in the building, we’ll be able to see out the window if anyone pulls in. Bring a towel out on the pool deck just in case.”

“I don’t have a towel!” I whine. “This is a terrible idea.”

“They have them in there. Now, would you get your ass out already?” He hops out.

Slowly, I do the same, unsure if this is even a good idea. But the thought of relaxing in a spa with the jets going is too good to turn down. Especially with the way my body feels.

“If we get busted, I’m blaming you!” I say, chasing after him and tucking my arm around his. “What if there’s a janitor and he sees my ass and nips?!”

“Then, he’ll die a happy man.” He shrugs, grinning down at me before we reach the door and I unhook myself from him. Pulling it open, he nods. “Ladies first.”

Walking inside, I gaze around at the ginormous pool. “Holy shit. This is nuts.”

Stepping inside and letting the door close behind him, he looks around. “I’m surprised you’ve never been here before. The spa and workout room are for athletes only. And you’re on the dance team.”

“I don’t think we rank as high as the hockey and football team,” I grumble. “Or the swimmers, apparently.”

Reaching down, he bops his finger on my nose and winks. “Well, my wife can come here anytime she pleases. I’ll give you my spare key card.”

Stepping around me, he walks to the corner of the room. Reaching inside a bin, he grabs two blue towels. As he walks toward a dim corner of the building, I follow behind and see a large spa. Wasting no time, he pulls his hoodie and shirt over his head, leaving him in his jeans only. And my mouth waters as I take him in as he kicks off his shoes and socks.

“Like what you see, Tiny Dancer?” He smirks before unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down, leaving him only in his briefs.

My brain turns to mush.

As he struts toward me, I let my eyes rake over every single inch of his muscled body. My knees feel weak. But the good news is, the pain in my leg seemingly disappears.

My fake husband looks good enough to eat. And I kind of want a taste.

---