Page 65 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Did I scare you,solnyshko?” That endearment—low, reverent, intimate—lands like a physical touch. I meet his gaze in the mirror and nod. Just once.

Something dark flares in his eyes. Satisfaction. Amusement. Possession.

Then, without another word, he turns back to his routine. Like he’s letting me have this.Like he’s allowing me my space.

Fornow.

But the air between us pulses.

I pick up the dumbbells, my fingers unsteady, my breathing uneven. The weight feels heavier than usual.

Or maybe it’s just him.

His voice is closer now.

Too close.

Then he’s right behind me. So near, his heat seeps into my skin. So near, I can feel the whisper of his breath ghosting over my shoulder.

“Your form is good.” His voice drops lower.“But you could get a bit more out of it.” He pauses. “Let me spot you.”

I nod, because words? Completely out of my skill set.

The first set leaves me shaking. I set the weights down and drag in a breath, hyper-aware of him still at my back.

“Pick a slightly lighter weight,” he murmurs, handing me another dumbbell. “One at a time.”

“I can handle?—”

“Trust me.”

His tone is quiet but absolute. A command wrapped in silk.

My stomach clenches. My pulse pounds.

I follow his instruction, and he hums approval, the sound rolling through my body like a slow burn.

“Slower on the way down,” he murmurs. “Control it.”

I do as he says, my arms trembling from the effort.

“One more,” he says, as I start to lower the weight. His breath is warm against my neck.

And suddenly it’s not the workout that’s making me shake.

“I can’t—” My voice breaks as my arms tremble, the weight too heavy. His hand slides over mine. Barely there. Just enough to steady me. Just enough to make my skin scream.

A sharp, electric pulse shoots up my arm. I barely register the weight touching down—I’m too busy trying to breathe.

I meet his gaze in the mirror.

Andfuck.

His eyes are burning. Devouring.

Then his fingers brush the back of my neck. It’s nothing. A whisper of contact. A flicker of heat. A touch so fleeting it shouldn’t even register.

But it wrecks me.

---