Page 14 of Stirred Up

Two strong hands brace around my waist, saving me from a face plant as the roll of the treadmill stops suddenly, Brady having pushed the button with no warning or permission. “Come on,” he grabs my hand, “let’s do arms.”

I follow along, no point in arguing. The benches are on a different floor, one filled with hard-bodied men in tight, or missing, shirts, sweat dripping down their six timespick a big numberpacks as they lift impressive weights. “Get pumped up” music plays overhead...and I appear to be the only female in the vicinity.

“Let’s start on this one.” He points with one hand, the other on my back, guiding me to an empty bench.

“What’s it do? Or what do I do? Never used it before.” I stare in nervous wonder, thinking back to a certain medieval contraption.

“Sit straddled on it, facing away, then lie back for me.”

Lie back for me.

My body the betrayer. My heartbeat slowly picks up its pace and my face begins to heat as I suppress a moan. The sexy throb of music isn’t helping. I do as he says then look up with a small gasp—he’s standing above me, his legs straddled on either side of my body.

I can see up the leg of his 80’s disco shorts. He really is out of underwear.

“Think you can do sixty pounds?” He eyes the weights deliberately.

“I have no idea, Brady,” I admit. “Again, never done it before. But I know I don’t want to get hurt or have my chest crushed.”

He bends down, his face not a full centimeter from mine, and pushes the sweaty bangs off my forehead. “That’s what I’m here for, silly girl. I won’t let you get hurt. We’ll do fifty.”

I watch as he rearranges discs and such onto the bar, the muscles in his nicely toned arms— I’d never tell him that—flexing with every movement. After that appointment yesterday, the reminders today, Brady’s decent physique and my drought of…well, anyway, I appear to be having strange, alarming reactions to a man I’ve known most my life. A man I’ve seen, while hiding in Dylan’s closet, stuff folded socks in his pants before his eighth grade dance.

Of their own, mischievous accord, my eyes driftthere, scrutinizing. Definitely no socks these days, no room for em’. My stomach tightens, a throb of desire pooling from deep within me as I train my focus anywhere but on him. With all the half-naked men crowding the room, I’m left at the mercy of my ever growing arousal, back with avengeance at the worst possible time.

Brady lowers the bar and all I can see is his hard, chiseled chest, causing my nipples to pebble and harden. This can’t be happening. Not withBrady. I need some relief, something to stop me before I fly up and take my sexual frustration out on him. I quake at the thought, my legs trembling, but it does nothing to settle my arousal.

“Moe?” He snares my attention, hint of a tamed laugh in his tone. “You look a little flushed. Distracted? You need a water break?”

“Yes! Water sounds great.” I shoot up, ducking the bar, sliding off the bench and around him. “Getting a drink,” I yell awkwardly, dashing for the ladies’ locker room...and passing two fountains on the way.

Until I figure out my whacked-out emotions and reactions, which I suddenly seem to have no control over, I’ve gotta get out of here. It seems a beast has been awoken in me and until I find a way to feed it, it’ll have to be kept caged, away from the public.

“Mocifus?” Brady calls, rounding the row of lockers to find me gathering up my stuff.

“Did youreadthe membership rules before you signedthem?” I chuckle, more nervous than amused. “No guys in the women’s locker room,or vice versa.” I cock an insinuating brow.

“Don’t give a shit; worried about you. Wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?” He moves into my space, our chests so close they nearly brush together as we both breath heavier than usual. It’s the workouts, I tell myself. “Was it your appointment yesterday? You need to tell me if something bothered you.” He’s frowning at me and I can’t stand it. I never could bear to see him truly upset.

“No, it’s not that, everything was fine. I don’t feel great is all. I’ll eat before work. That should help.” I throw my bag over my shoulder, avoiding his eyes, and make to leave.

His hand on my arm stops me. “Let me carry that. I’ll walk you out. You think you feel too bad for Tiko’s tonight? Nothing a ‘rita and cheese dip can’t cure.” He winks, almost all signs of concern wiped away as we head out of the locker room.

Brady, Dylan and I have had a long standing Thursday night date at Tiko’s since I was old enough to drink. Weprep for the upcoming weekend—Fridays rock on their own, so we steal an extra day— with margaritas, Mexican food and gripes about work. Sometimes we throw in some karaoke, depending on how generous they’re making the margaritas.

“Not sure.” I shrug noncommittally. “We’ll see how I feel after work. You two will manage fine without me if not.”

“If not what?” my brother asks, appearing out of nowhere, standing in front of us now.

“Dylan?” I shake my head, astonished, perhaps even hallucinating. “You do realize it’s seven o’clock in the morning, and this isa gym?”

“Funny.” He shoves my shoulder, Brady’s hand already there to brace me. “He made me.” He points and scowls at Brady. “What were you guys talking about?”

“Moe’s not feeling well. She may skip tonight,” Brady answers for me.

“You okay?” There’s the worried brow, the brother I adore shining through. “We can chill at yours if you’d rather? Oh shit, wait,” he snaps, a frown setting in, “Brady and I have dates.”

“We have what?” Brady asks, obviously unaware of his match-up.

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