Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I keep going until I’m breathless. I’ve done well this morning and I think I’ll call it a day.
But just then, Blake comes in from a side door—maybe it’s an attached sauna or shower room. I'm in disbelief, freezing mid-step, the machine jolting me forward as I stare. His hair is tousled, and he's in shorts—gray ones that barely hide his powerful thighs, the kind athletes wear for training—and a fitted tank that clings to his torso and outlines every ridge of muscle. It is damp already from whatever he's been doing.
He heads towards the free weights, lifts a barbell loaded with plates, and starts curling it with effortless grace, biceps flexing, cord-like veins standing out on his forearms. Sweat glistens on his honeyed skin, and there is a focused intensity in his eyes as he grunts softly with each rep. And oh God, he's gorgeous. Just so, so, so gorgeous. My mouth goes dry, heat flooding me anew, and I continue my climb on the stair master. I pretend to focus on the digital display ticking up calories burned, but my gaze keeps drifting back to him in the mirrors.
We're both practically naked in here—me in my Lycra, the fabric thin and sweat-soaked now, nipples pebbling against the material from the cool air and something hotter, him stripped down to essentials. The whole gym feels intimate, charged, as if we've stumbled into each other's secrets. Soon, though, the sight of him—grunting, muscles rippling, that sheer physicality—is too much, and I feel myself getting wet. Really wet. My arousal starts leaking down my inner thighs, and my clit is throbbing with every step. Definitely time to end my session. I hit the stop button with a trembling finger, and the machine whines down. Blake turns then to look at me, and I mutter something about needing water and flee like the devil himself is on my tail. My feet pound on the stairs as I take it two at a time, my heart pounding, cheeks burning.
I reach my bedroom, shut the door and lean against it to catch my breath, the wood cool on my back. Then I begin to pace the floor. This just won’t do. I can’t be doing this for three freaking months. I’ll go mad. I have to find a way to deal with this… this unfortunate sexual attraction. I can’t be on the verge of an orgasm or in heat whenever I see him. This constant simmer is turning me inside out, making every glance feel like foreplay.
To say nothing of the fact that it's dangerous. Really dangerous. One slip, and the whole charade crumbles. I peel off my sweaty clothes and stand under the rain head in the marble bathroom. Water cascades hot and wonderful, steam fogs the glass doors as I lather up with the La Mer body wash from the shelf, creamy and scented with sea minerals. I rub slow circles over my breasts, down my belly, trying to wash away the want, but my fingers linger between my legs, teasing the ache. I can still feel his dream mouth on my dream sex.
I bite my lip and stop before I give in to the need. Giving in would be pouring petrol on a fire that is already raging. I’m too wired. I need to relax. I need a bath.
I fill the deep clawfoot tub positioned by the window overlooking the gardens with bubbles from a lime basil and mandarin bath oil. The scent is citrusy and sharp as I sink in, water lapping at my skin. It is hot enough to turn me pink. I settle in, close my eyes and take deep, calming breaths. Slowly, as I soak, the tension melts, and thoughts drift in on how to survive this pull. It is as clear as day.
Stay as far away from him as possible and never ever be alone with him. Shouldn’t be too difficult. He is, after all, a workaholic. I will use the gym during work hours. Also, I should find a purpose that will keep me busy. Maybe I should read books from the extensive library. Something I didn’t have enough time for in my real life. Only two months and twenty-nine days to go… then I will claim my prize money and follow my dreams.
Feeling much more positive about my future, I get out of the bath and choose another sundress from the closet—butter-yellow, light chiffon Zimmermann with delicate floral prints. It floats over my body, thin straps crossing at the back. This time, though, I throw on a jean jacket over it and roll the sleeves up to my elbows. I dry my hair, then carefully insert my contact lenses, and I’m ready to face the world.
But leaving my room feels intimidating and dangerous.
I pace the rug barefoot, the fibers soft under my toes, and think about what to do next. I should visit the girl. Freya, that sweet face from yesterday. Her hurt still nags at me like a loose thread. Maybe mending that bridge will give me purpose, distract me from the doomed fire Blake has ignited. Because that fire is surely doomed. One way or another I must find a way to douse it completely.