Page 81 of Gym Bros
“I mean, I—you—I wanted to, I guess.”
“So did I,” he says like it’s that simple, and maybe it is for him? Even though he’s never ever had sex with a man before. Orhas he? He never really said. “But it also sounds like you already regret it.”
“No,” I say quickly. I just think maybehemight…at some point…if… But he’s right. No one needs to know. This could be a one-off and not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but even as that thought enters my mind, I notice the grip my fingers have on his shirt.
I think about the rock hard muscle beneath the fleece and experience another pang of lust not unlike the one that had me telling him to yes, go ahead, put on the condom.
I can’t blame the wine, but maybe it was the hot chocolate? I don’t usually ingest chocolate—I have a figure I have to keep in perfect form, and I prefer to drink my calories in alcohol, not cocoa, but something’s woken my dormant sex drive, and this almost feels like a use it or lose it moment.
But I can’t possibly ask him to stay and use me again. I’ll hurt myself.
“No,” I say again. “It was good.”
“Good?”
The way he’s staring down at me. I wouldn’t call it intense or annoyed, though his tone is—but he looks more curious—entertained.
“Yes, it was good,” I repeat myself.
“As in…you’d go on a date with me again, or…?”
“Do we have to decide that right now?” I ask, exasperated with the whole situation. He’s nothing like I expected. I wonder if I’m as full of surprises for him as he is for me, but somehow I doubt it. I think he’s got me all figured out.
His hand slides beneath my jaw, and he tilts my face up, angling me for a kiss he plants on my lips. “No, we don’t,” he says. “I still have to decide if I want to ask you out again. You’re tricky.”
I nod, staring into his dark blue eyes. They’re actually reallynice eyes. Not huge but heavily lined with dark lashes. They stand out as the gentlest feature on his face. Okay, so he looks biggerandhotter.
He strokes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “So pretty, though.”
“Thanks,” I hear myself saying, even though I’d rather he compliment literally anything else. Even my living room.
“Wish me luck tomorrow?” he asks.
“For what?”
“I’m headed back into training.”
“You’re not coming for yoga?”
“No, I’ll be there,” he tells me.
“Okay,” I say, relieved that I won’t have to worry about when I’ll see him again or have to make it happen somehow. Or avoid it.
“I’ll show myself out,” he says, letting go of my face.
“Um…okay.” I guess he got what he came for. “Don’t hurt yourself tomorrow.”
“Thanks, angel,” he says.
Fuck, someone go ahead and kill me now.
13
SAMUEL
Rodrigo, my striking trainer, makes a show of being happy to see me. It’s one part genuine, and another part meant to encourage the other fighters to welcome me back. A few of them give me fist bumps, ask how my leg is doing, say it’s good to see me, but then, as usual, they forget I’m here.
Rodrigo puts me through my paces at the punching bag where we focus mostly on my upper body and add in some knee strikes at the end. I’m not cleared to grapple or spar yet, but I watch the other fighters get after it on the mat at the center of the gym.
