Page 82 of Overtime
I scramble to think of any possible innuendo behind that but come up blank.
“What are you talking about?”
“Hmmwell.” It comes out as one word as he sits up straighter and puts his ginormous laptop under the bend of his knees. “I started reverse tutoring you yesterday, didn’t I?”
My heart leaps to my throat. I splutter but don’t say anything coherent. Not when he’s giving me that smirk that only means trouble.
“I should finish that session first, shouldn’t I?”
“It finished quite nicely,” I say, voice squeaky.
“Nicely?” He wrinkles his nose. “Is that a challenge to do better?”
“No!”
Oh, actually yes. Absolutely.
“So, here’s my idea for today’s session.” With his hand on the blanket, he leans a little closer, which puts his nose almost against mine. “We’re at a lake, right?” He stops, as if waiting for a reaction.
“Um, yes?”
“Then let’s go for a dip.”
I reel back with a laugh. “In February? Are you off your rocker?”
“It’s really warm today. You said so yourself.”
“Yeah, but not enough to swim.”
“Well, I’m going in.” Aran grabs the hem of his sweatshirt and pulls it off in a smooth move. His T-shirt catches on the other fabric for a moment, and I get a glimpse of cords of muscle down his side. He catches me staring and adds, “You can watch all you want.”
Before I can even dream of protesting, he grabs a fistful of the back of his T-shirt and pulls it off. And just like that, my brain stops functioning.
Not true. It functions, all right. But to drink him in.
Aran leans a little away from me, twisting so his shoulder rests against the door. “Got your fill yet?”
“Not yet, actually,” I respond with shocking calm compared to how fast my heart is racing. “Stay still.”
His shoulders vibrate with a chuckle, but he really stays there, letting me ogle him openly.
The real deal is so much better than the training video of him I watched months ago. Aran bends one knee up and rests his elbow there, head against his fist. His bicep bulges in this position. No wonder he can pick me up easily. His arms are as thick as my thighs.
“Good gravy,” I mutter like a Southern lady. “Your stomach looks like a chocolate bar.”
That’s not even a six-pack. He has eight defined squares of muscle that stay defined even when he’s hunching over. Then they disappear into a V that starts at his hipbones. That might be more shocking than how small his waist is compared to his enormous shoulders.
He smirks. “Do you want a bite?”
That’s when I gasp and cover my face. “Aran Rodriguez, stop teasing me or I will spontaneously combust in this car and burn it to ashes.”
“Fine.”
It’s not fine. I hear rustling, and when I open my eyes, I find him unzipping his jeans. I should look away. I really should. But I don’t. Aran lifts his hips, which makes his core muscles flex so beautifully I wish I could snap a picture. And then he’s sliding his jeans down.
I force myself to hide my face inside my sweater, and he must see it, because he starts chuckling.
“Don’t worry, Strawberry. I’m not going to get naked for you unless you ask for it.”
