Page 49 of A Photo Finish
I ignore that last message and step into the shower, my mind suddenly fixated on him and his offer. Something that has been taking up more and more space in my head. Something that’s becoming more and more tempting with my total lack of consistent sex life stowed away on this farm.
My hands roam my body, slippery with soap, and I let myself imagine that they’re the hands of the man I’ve talked to every day for almost a year. The first person I talk to in the morning, and the last one I talk to before bed.
That counts for something, right? I may not know him, but I do feel like I trust him. A tiny voice inside my head yells “naive!” but as my palm slides over my breast, and one trails down between my legs, I feel emboldened.
And when I get out of the shower, I grab my phone and snap a photo before I can change my mind.
* * *
I’m goingto kill Cole Harding.
“One more,” he barks at me like I’m the one in the army here.
I’ll definitely kill him—as soon as my arms stop shaking. And as soon as I stop daydreaming about his lips so close to mine. The scrape of his stubble against my cheek. The sheer power of his body as he towered over me that night a week ago.
That’s right. It’s been one week since Cole Harding called me his friend and kissed me on the cheek, and I’m a bumbling mess around the man. One week since I crawled into his bed and held his hand in mine like I had a right to. Every touch, every look, every gentle word, it’s like a slow-motion reel that won’t stop playing through my mind. I’m so far gone, it’s not even funny.
Things were awkward before because we left so much unsaid between us, and it’s awkward now because I can’t stop thinking about banging the guy. Doesn’t help that he’s beenniceto me. Like . . . normal nice. He’s still quiet, but he doesn’t grumble so much. He’s even cooked me dinner most evenings this week. Like he wants to take care of me. He said he was sick of watching me eat mac ‘n’ cheese. That I’m an athlete, and I need to treat my body like one.
Which is why I’m here, on a yoga mat in the living room, working out with him.
Riding a horse feels natural, butthisdoes not. This feels like torture. Double-fold torture because it’s obviously physically exhausting, but being this close to him is emotionally exhausting too. Every nerve ending stands at attention. Every time a warm palm lands on my body to position me, goosebumps race out over my arms. My breathing hitches. My stupid cheeks turn pink.
It’s like every part of my body is in a competition with each other to out me as a total goner for the surly soldier who is currently nudging my hip bone with the tips of his fingers.
“Don’t let your core sag. Your lower back will get sore.”
I do the last push up from my knees before flopping down onto the floor, feeling like a beached whale who’s given up on life. Given the choice between moving and death, I choose death. After an entire week of working out with Cole Harding the Supersoldier? I. Choose. Death.
I hear the rumble of his deep chuckle from above me. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“It’s been nice knowing you,” I reply as I pant into the floor.
He laughs again and drops a palm onto the center of my back, rubbing up and down, his hand catching on the strap of my bra.
“Are you sore?”
“Not if I don’t move.”
“Dramatic,” he grumbles as his hand moves again, fingers pressing in and massaging my aching muscles.
“Oh god, yes,” I murmur, resting my chin on my forearms and letting my eyes flutter shut. His hands always feel good on my body, but this? This is ecstasy.
I hear a quiet grunt, but he keeps massaging me. His fingers move to the right places every time. Like he knows exactly which spots to hit.
“Where are you sore?” His voice is thick. It sends a chill down my spine.
“Everywhere.”
“Violet.” He cups one of my elbows and flips me over so I’m flat on my back and forced to look up at him where he kneels beside my vulnerable form. I stare at his broad shoulders and biceps filling out his T-shirt in a way that just isn’t fair. At his throat that bobs as he swallows and looks down at me. At his eyes that are locked on me like I might be his last meal.
Am I imagining the look on his face? The rise and fall of his chest?
“Where are you sore?” he repeats his question.
Transfixed by the sight of him kneeling over me, oozing raw, masculine power, I lick my lips. It’s like a shot to my core. What I wouldn’t give to watch Cole Harding move above me withthatlook on his face.
“My neck and shoulders,” I squeak out, trying to play it cool and failing miserably.
