Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Holy hell. If my ovaries weren’t already planning a ticker-tape parade, they definitely are now.
4
oliver
The workweek from hell is finally in the rearview, but my to-do list could choke an elephant, and sleep is some distant myth I read about in a self-help book once. Fucking hell, between the Lewis-Burton merger and my dirty dreams involving one gorgeous barista, I haven’t had more than two hours of sleep in over a week.
It’s almost eight, so the #1 Love Place gym should be fucking deserted. I decide to work out until I’m so goddamn exhausted, my mind shuts down for a little sleep. I need the rest. I have plans for the weekend. Plans that demand I show up at my absolute fucking best. Plans that revolve around Cydney and the way she’s already gotten under my skin, thrumming in my veins. I want her addicted to me. I want her needing me as bad as I crave her. I’ll make damn sure of it.
I head up to my penthouse and strip down, swapping out my suit for shorts and a tank, every muscle on edge. I take the elevator to the third floor. My mind’s still working overtime as I shove through the gym door, expecting the usual emptiness. But no. The universe serves up a gift-wrapped surprise and shoves it right in my face. A fucking present with a bow on top, waiting for me. If I thought Cydney was gorgeous in her regular clothes, it’s nothing compared to her in skimpy workout wear. Fucking hell. My cock turns to stone, and I know this is going to make working out a little more difficult.
Glancing at her, I realize there’s no halfway with Cydney. She’s running on the treadmill like she’s got the devil himself at her heels, poured into skin-tight gray leggings that wrap around every sinfully perfect curve, and a cropped black tank that strains to contain her luscious tits. My mouth goes dry. Her hair’s up in a high ponytail, swinging back and forth with every relentless stride. A constellation of sweat beads glistens along her arms and collarbone, and I’d give my left arm to see if she tastes as sweet as she looks. She’s locked in on the console, completely focused, until I make my entrance. Then her eyes flick up to meet mine—dark, sparkling, dangerous. Game on.
I actually mutter it. “Fuck me.”
She hears me and her mouth goes wide in a heart-stopping grin, and she ups the treadmill speed just to show off, legs blurring while her ass bounces in perfect sync with her footsteps.
My heart pounds away, and I’m not sure I’m going to survive this run-in with her.
With as much dignity as I can fake, I veer away from the dumbbells and stagger over to the elliptical on the back wall. At least there, I can ogle her in the reflection without looking like a total pervert.
I crank the settings, fighting the urge to stare, but every part of me is on red alert. Sweat prickles my scalp, and I haven’t even started moving.
She’s still jogging and glancing at me every few seconds. The next time our eyes lock, she smirks, then punches the treadmill up another level. The belts whine. Her pace goes from “impressive” to “are you fucking kidding me?”
My hand slips, and I punch the resistance up so high my machine actually beeps at me. Like it’s worried for my safety.
“Living dangerously with those settings, Burkhardt?” Cydney calls across the room, not even winded, just grinning like she’s got my number.
I bark out a laugh, swallowing a groan. “Says the woman racing an imaginary cheetah. You training for the Olympics, or just showing off?”
She throws her head back and laughs—I’d recognize that husky rasp anywhere. “This is my warm-up speed.” Cydney winks and powers through another minute, ponytail a blur. Her entire body is a study in temptation—hips swaying, waist beaded with sweat, tank top hugging those perfect curves with zero mercy.
My cock is painfully aware of every second.
I pretend to focus on the elliptical, but my brain is too busy picturing her bent over the counter in her bakery… or, hell, bent over the equipment right here and now, yoga pants peeled down.
She saunters off the machine, stretching her arms overhead so I get a perfect, unfiltered view of her bare skin above her waistband. If I were a weaker man, I’d fall off this elliptical and drop to my damn knees to worship her.
Cydney wipes her neck and glances at me sideways. She’s flushed from the workout—cheeks rosy, hairline damp, eyes bright. My mouth goes dry.
She walks right past, close enough that the scent of her shampoo—something floral, sweet, with just a hint of vanilla—clouds my fucking senses. I nearly trip getting off the elliptical.
With her in range, there’s no way in hell I’m letting the moment go to waste.