Page 62 of Resistance Training
“Wanna bet?” I probably wouldn’t be able to walk right now, but I will wrap my legs around his neck to win a bet if I have to.
“No,” he says. “I don’t.” He massages my ankle. Circling, tracing figure eights around the outside of my ankle bone.
What?
Jesus. The flutters in my belly. I didn’t know ankle massages were a thing or that ankles were an erogenous zone, but my ankle is stimulated and responding to his rhythmic touch and my hips are doing figure eights, rocking to that same rhythm.
“Brad… Shit.”So good.
“You shouldn’t have worn high heels after working out all week for the first time ever and not stretching enough, Vivian.” His hands slide down my leg. “That was not a good decision.”
I gasp when he digs his knuckles into my calf muscle. “But I looked hot in them.”
“True.”
“I look hot out of them too,” I manage to say before whimpering and clenching my core and rubbing my thighs together. Rocking. This is pure agony. My pelvis is desperate tofind something to bump and grind against.God, the tension—fuck you, Bradley—don’t stop.
“You do, Vivian. You look really hot tonight.”
“Brad…” I can’t decide if I love hating this or hate loving this, but I know I hate not kissing him. I am gripping the edge of the sofa cushions, but my back arches in an attempt to raise myself to him. I have to kiss him. I need him to kiss me. My eyelids are so heavy, but I can see his tight jaw. My vision is blurry, but I can see him staring at my breasts. I am offering them to him because it’s easier than lifting my head all the way to his face. I know he wants me. I know he wants this as much as I do, but he’s being a fucking asshole.
“You didn’t stretch or give yourself a rest day like you were supposed to,” he says—as if that’s really what’s on his mind right now—and his voice is deep, but I can hear the struggle to control his desire and it’s giving me life. “You worked out too much?—”
“Again,” I interject, “you did not properly convey the importance of the muscle-recovery phase.”
I can sense every muscle in his body and his entire soul tensing up, and it’s delicious. “And then,” he continues, as if he didn’t hear me, “you wore high-heeled boots out to a bar. Where…you drank a large strawberry daiquiri and ate loaded nachos? And you didn’t text me first.”
Cindy, you genius Judas.
“Yeah, that’s right. And I loved them.”
I don’t know how he does it, but he grabs both my ankles and swings me around so I’m face down on the sofa with my legs straight out behind me. I lost track of his phone and the beanie a while ago—they’re probably somewhere in the cracks between the cushions. As for my own cracks, well, they are swollen and soaking wet and dying for anything of his to come between them.
“There’s strength in resistance, Vivian. Youknowwhat happens when you do something you regret. Why do you keepdoing things you know neither of us will like? All you had to do was be accountable to me.”
Oh. God. I can’t tell if this is a game or not and he might not know either, but I’m going with it.
“I don’t regret a single thing about today. I feel great.”
“You sure about that?” he asks from somewhere behind me. “Because if you’re tight anywhere, I will give you a massage.”
“I did a lot of booty work,” I declare without hesitation.
“Booty work, you said?”
I turn my head to say very clearly, “Yeah, there’s a lot of inflammation in my glutes.”
He grunts. I feel the weight of him on my lower legs. He’s straddling me. One of his legs is bent alongside mine, one foot on the floor, I guess.
“Whoop!” I shout out when he flips up my skirt. There’s a sudden rush of cool air on the backs of my thighs that’s surprising and satisfying.
“Fuck. Vivian.” He groans. But he doesn’t touch me.
“God dammit, Brad.”
His hands are on my hips now, over the skirt, pressing his thumbs into the small of my back, and it feels so good. He massages my hips. “You sure this is what you want?”
Oh, Jesus. “Brad. Mitch. Bradley. Hottest Brad of All Time. Once again—I consent. I consent to this.”
