Page 34 of A Quarterback for Christmas

As Drew’s grunts get louder, my thoughts get naughtier. My breathing is labored, and I start to think about the things we might be doing to make our breathing so erratic.

Oh, what a dirty girl I am, thinking about a man I’m supposed to hate, all sweaty and hot, pushing in and out while he lies on top of me, but I can’t help myself. Those grunts are primal, and Drew’s giving me all the audible porn I’ll ever need.

I knock on the door, waiting for an invite. When there’s no answer, I knock louder and yell, “Drew?”

Still nothing.

After another round of knocking, I decide my only course of action is to go in the room instead of standing outside it.

I open the door with my hip, walk in with my crutches, and yell, “Drew! It’s not even five in the morn-”

Words cling to the tip of my tongue because all I can see is Drew sitting on a leg press machine with his big-ass headphones on.

Oh, and no shirt.

Did I forget to mention the lack of shirt?

His abs, bathed in sweat, ripple when he flexes and lifts his legs. My gaze trickles down to the tiny black shorts he’s wearing and his thighs.

Oh, his thighs.

Drew’s thighs are a work of art. He’s not just toned but a stacked machine of deliciousness, and I want to get on top of him just to check that all his parts are in working order.

Now I finally understand why there’s a dress code at the gym because how could anyone concentrate when Drew’s veins are popping out like that? I mean seriously…Thick, corded veins travel from the middle of his stomach to the bottom of his waist, feeding what I can only imagine is a giant monster cock.

I bite my bottom lip when he raises his leg again, watching closely in the mirror as the muscles underneath those veins move and disappear into his shorts.

Swallowing, I lick my lips, trying to get any moisture in my mouth because finishing my sentence is still proving difficult. That, and I need my brain to start functioning again.

“Everything okay, B?” His voice shocks my head up, and I catch his eyes in the mirror.

Oh, shit.

“I, I, I.” The stuttering is embarrassing but gets worse when I see myself in the mirror. Not only is Drew sitting there looking like a sweaty god this morning, but I look recklessly homeless with a rumpled shirt and barely-there booty shorts. The worst part about this whole thing is that it’s obvious that I’m clearly staring at him. So painfully obvious that Drew doesn’t even look bothered by it.

Drew pulls his headphones off and starts to move off the machine.

Are my nipples hard? Because it feels like they are. My whole body feels like a stretched elastic band, ready to snap at any moment.

“Yeah, I’m, uh, good. Just wanted to know what all the noise was,” I squeak out, trying to elegantly back out of the room. Elegantly being the operative word since it’s pretty hard to do with crutches and a giant cast.

The cast drags across the floor, getting caught on the door's threshold, and I scream as I feel myself falling backward.

Not again.

Trying to grip onto anything, I grab the doorknob and somehow slam the door shut before falling on my ass in the hallway.

That’s one way of getting out of admitting that I want to take Drew for a ride.

The boney flesh of my butt throbs in pain, but I’m not about to stay sitting there rubbing my ass, waiting for Drew to come to my rescue. No, because then I’d have to explain why I was gawking at his crotch. Oh, and I also didn’t want him to get too close, considering I absolutely stink from my lack of showers since arriving here.

Rolling onto my front, I groan, propping myself on all fours, and crawl to the living room since that’s quicker than hobbling on my crutches.

I freeze on the spot when I hear the door creak open, but I’m far enough away that I can’t see Drew in the darkness.

“Bella?” he calls out, and I don’t answer. I keep crawling until I can climb onto the couch and cover myself with the blanket.

I crush my eyes closed and burrow into the couch when I hear his footsteps come into the room.

---