Page 103 of Gym Bros
“With safety gear.”
“That didn’t keep you from getting injured.”
“Yeah well, shit happens. And you’re gonna make sure I’m so strong, and so balanced by November, my hammies will be unstoppable.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
I nudge in a little closer. “I kinda think you like it.”
“I don’t know why you’d think that.”
“Wanna see my hickey?”
“Ugh.”
I tickle his waist, and he lets out an ear-piercing shriek before gasping and kicking at me.
To settle him down, I hug him close and kiss his neck, laughing while he calls me all kinds of names. He winds up with his legs locked around me and his hands down the back of my shorts. He kisses my chin and says in the most annoyed voice. “The eggs are getting cold.”
I might have been wrong when I got out of the shower earlier. It’s not my balls I need to be worried about him walking off with.
16
CALYX
I’m like—really good at Kung Fu.
And I’m not just saying that because Samuel says so—I’m objectively gifted at it. I can tell by my reflection in the mirror when we’re practicing and the pictures he’s taken where I look amazing. It’s a lot like learning a dance, but the flow is more like power yoga, and the moves themselves—they’re just cool.
He does like to make me suffer a little, holding low lunges until my feet are shaking while he lifts my arms higher or fixes my hand positions. I draw the line when he offers to spar, though. Not interested.
“Kung Fuisa fighting style.”
“Oh? I thought it was a martialart.”
“Bring that smart mouth over here and say that again,” he’ll say, or something like it.
But I’ll just wink and move into the next position for him to fix.
His yoga is coming along, too. By the end of the next week, he surprises me, by turning a bridge into a full wheel. A gorgeous bend of his entire back wherein his shirt falls to cover half his face and expose his entire torso.
“Have you been practicing that?” I ask, astonished.
“I saw it online, and I was like—I could do that easy when I was ten, so I tried it. Cracked a few bones, but here I am.”
“You’re thriving, babe,” I say, and shut my mouth because I don’t ever call him that. Sam when I’m feeling sweet or needy, jackass when I’m not, but babe?Babe?
Lucky me, he doesn’t seem to notice.
He carefully lowers himself out of the pose after a few seconds, landing flat on the mat with his knees bent. The need to straddle him is semi-urgent. I check the time and try to make a game plan for how to distract myself from thoughts like that for the next half hour.
Last night when he was here, I was so horny, I almost turned out the studio lights and took my chances of getting caught deep throating him on a yoga mat, but I think he saw I was losing it and decided to teach me how to do something called a butterfly kick. Now, I wasn’t automatically gifted atthat, but Sam said I wasn’t bad. And it was definitely difficult enough to distract me. Fuck, when he does it, though, he looks like he’s floating for two seconds before he lands.
It’s amazing.
He’s…kind of amazing.
The only issue I’m having besides the fact that I used to fuck his dad, is I think I’m way more into him than he is to me, which is truly unlike me.
