Page 63 of Resistance Training

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And hallelujah, his big, warm hands stretch across my butt cheeks and he squeezes. He squeezes so hard. “This is a fucking great ass, Sparks.” He cups both cheeks gently, lifting them up and letting them drop and jiggle into the palms of his hands. I should be embarrassed—a little, maybe—but I can tell by his grunts that he likes what I’ve got going on back there, so I feel great about it.

He strokes up the sides of my hips, under the skirt, softly slides his hands, one following the other, across my waistfrom hip to hip. He lightly caresses the entire surface of my badonkadonk. Over my cotton panties. Grazes the skin of the backs of my thighs with his fingertips. With the backs of his fingers. Down and up. Around the sides. To the inner thighs. I’m trembling, and I can barely feel the pressure of his touch anymore. It’s so mean.

“Brad.”

“Vivian.” He grips one side of my panties and rips them apart at the seams—thank God. He yanks them off of me, tossing them away. “Hold on to the arm of the sofa.”

I do that. I reach up and grip it tight. Suddenly he’s on the floor, on his knees beside me, aligned with my waist. He unzips the back of my skirt, and I wriggle around to help him pull it down my legs, and off it goes. I turn my head, trying to see him.

“Close your eyes,” he demands.

“I want to see you.”

“Kind of impossible for you to see me while I work on your glutes.”

I huff and squirm around. “You need to worka lotharder,” I say before burying my face into the sofa cushion. “So bossy.” I feel a rush of cool air again, and he’s gone. “Brad.”

He’s back by my side. “Lift your head a little,” he says, softly this time.

I lift my head and feel soft material slide over my eyes. I can smell my own perfume. I know what this is. It’s the long, skinny velvet scarf I ordered from Etsy last month because it had the wordsStevie Nicksin the item description. One of those purchases I never would have made when I was living with Jeremy.

Brad makes sure the edge of the scarf sits at the bridge of my nose so I can breathe. He ties it at the base of my skull, over my hair, just one knot, not too tight. I can’t see, and the fabric feels so good on my face when I move my head from side to side.

“That okay?”

“Yes.”

“This is what you want?”

“Yes. I mean. I wanted you to fuck me, but this is fine for now.”

I hear him breathe out a laugh, but the tiny laugh doesn’t affect his tone. “You gonna relax?”

“Maybe.”

I get a quick slap on my left butt cheek and an electric charge all the way up my spine for that, and then his hands slide over my waist, toward my right hip. Sliding back and forth across my waist again, and then he kneads the flesh and muscle, pinching and rolling, at my hips, my waist. The palms of his hands graze the top of my bottom, gliding across my skin, even though there’s no oil or lotion. There’s a little friction, in a way that feels so good, in a way that I need. But he does not give me the butt massage I was hoping for, and it’s making me furious and it feels amazing. He rubs deeper and deeper, above my ass, and if my desire and senses weren’t awakened before, they are wide awake and screaming for him now.

I am not relaxed. My breaths are heavy and ragged, my heart is racing. My lower body is still squirming because of all the pressure and slick arousal between my legs.

I get this flash of a realization that this isBradley, my nerdy best friend from high school, who’s doing this to me, and it’s so strange, but it also is relaxing. Finally. I melt into the overstuffed sofa cushions, sighing on an exhale. I melt into the sensation of being touched by this man who means so much to me, even though he means to punish me, and I can’t tell if he’s going to do it by not letting me come or by making me come so hard that I black out.

I really hope it’s the latter.

I think?

Finally his hands are finding their way back to my butt. Measured strokes up the back of my thigh to my booty, circling, lightly pinching, fanning outward and then kneading the mound of flesh with both hands. Methodically. With determination. He keeps grunting, almost in response, like he’s having a silent conversation with himself, but there’s still so much restraint.

It is so frustrating, and I can’t tell if I like it or not, and I hate that.

I take a deep breath and try to wait for him to do whatever he’s planning on doing, but…

Nope.

Can’t.

“You actually think you’re doing this as part of my personal training, don’t you?”

“You are a foolish new client who needs extra guidance and care.”