Page 35 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Twenty pounds is impressive for shoulder work,” I hear myself say. “Most women don’t lift that heavy.”

In the mirror, her eyes flick to mine, something wicked and playful dancing behind them.

She knows.

She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

“Cellos are heavy,” she teases, rolling her shoulders. “I need the strength to maintain proper form when playing.” Then, after a pause so calculated it might as well be a checkmate, she adds, “Besides, toned shoulders look great in evening gowns. Win-win.”

I nearly snap the resistance band in half.

She’s playing with fire. And I can’t touch her.

I let out a low, guttural sound—half frustration, half warning—and drop into another lunge, forcing my body into motion before closing the distance and showing her exactly how I like to play.

But no matter how hard I try to focus, she’s still there—taunting, tempting, lingering in the corner of my vision like a challenge I’m one breath away from accepting.

The quiet count of her reps under her breath. The smooth, controlled grace in the way she moves through each exercise. The way her body flexes and tightens.

My hands itch. I need to touch her. To slide over the curve of her lower back, guiding her into a slight adjustment—just enough to squeeze out another rep. To grip her waist, feel the muscles shift beneath my fingers. To spread those toned thighs wide and massage her pussy until it glistens for me.

Enough.

I drive through another lunge, forcing the heat pooling in my gut to burn off in the effort.

“Mind if I grab that band while you’re on lunges?”

Her voice is light. Innocent. But my body doesn’t get the memo.

A bead of sweat slides down her stomach, catching the soft gym light, and my pulse hammers against my ribs like a war drum. My cock has no business being this hard at six in the goddamn morning.

I shove the band toward her without looking—but our fingers brush.

And fuck me.

A sharp jolt, white-hot and electric, streaks up my spine. Her breath hitches, the smallest, sharpest intake. From exertion?

Not a fucking chance.

And that’s exactly the problem. Knowing she reacts to me the same way makes my restraint damn near impossible.

I drop into another lunge, clenching my jaw so hard I might crack a molar.

She moves into slow, deliberate stretches designed to finish me off. A deep side-bend elongates her torso, arching her back just enough to send another pulse of heat straight to my groin. Then she folds into a hamstring stretch, pressing her palms to the floor, and?—

Her tiny fucking shorts ride up.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I rip my gaze away—the ceiling, the floor, my hands, the goddamn wall. Anywhere but her.

This line—the no-touch rule—is mine. My choice.

And yet here I am, sweating under the weight of my own restraint, burning with a hunger I haven’t felt in years.

“All yours,” she says suddenly, handing me the band, casual as ever. Like she didn’t just wreck me in thirty minutes flat. “Thanks for sharing your space.”

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