“You used to love getting sticky with me.” He leans over my sprawled position and slides a palm from his sternum to the thin trail of hair low on his torso. Then lower, lower…
Ohmygina, his fingers are going in, dipping beneath his waistband and giving me a glimpse of how well he’s keeping up with the manscaping.
“Cole.” I groan. “You need to stop.”
“Your breathy voice says otherwise.” He places a knee between my legs and straddles one of my thighs.
Half of his hand is still visible above the waistband, so he’s not touching himself. But the heated look on his face tells me he wants to. Or more accurately, he wants me to.
“Do you still have the snake tattoo around your thigh?” I stare up at him, falling fast and hard into his dark chocolate eyes.
“Yes. Want to see it?” He lowers his hand another inch.
“Better not.” I swallow. “Are you finished with your workout?”
“I have push-ups left.” His dimples make an appearance, like double divots of mischief. “Do you want to get sweaty?”
“Oh, no. Don’t you dare—”
He grabs my waist and falls on top of me, rubbing his slick skin all over mine and using my body like a damn towel. I shriek and laugh, shoving at his pumped-up chest, but it’s a wasted effort. He out maneuvers, overpowers, and wrestles me into a sweaty, worn-out tangle of limbs.
“You win.” I sag beneath his heavy weight and run a hand down the curve of his back.
“I won the day I met you.” He nuzzles my neck and circles his hips lightly against mine.
He’s hard. So beautifully, deliciously long and swollen and ready. Four years ago, I would’ve reached my hand into those shorts and stroked him to climax. But I need to do the right thing and keep the disasters in my life to a minimum.
“How about those push-ups?” I comb my fingers through his hair.
“As hard as I am…” He lifts his head and grins at me. “Maybe I can pull off a cock push-up.”
“Oh God. That doesn’t sound remotely sexy.” I trace a finger beneath the ridge of his pecs. “Are you up for doing ninety-pound push-ups?”
Me, sitting on his back, is the only way he used to do them.
“Hmm. Ninety-pounds?” He rises on his knees and makes a show of examining my body. “I think you’ve added a few pounds. Or twenty.”
He knows damn well I haven’t gained an ounce since he met me. If anything, I’ve gotten leaner—a side effect of depression.
“Sounds to me like you’re afraid to try.” I arch a brow.
“Fuck that.” He jumps to his feet.
I follow him to the mat near his workout machines, savoring the effortless way his body moves.
He lowers into the push-up position, elbows bent, face down. “Climb on, baby.”
I sit on his spine and cross my legs, facing his feet. As a dancer, I have superior balance, so my job is easy. He, on the other hand, has his work cut out for him.
He used to be able to do twenty of these, but he’s lost a lot of muscle mass. I count silently, watching his ass flex through each dip and rise. And damn, his sexy grunting noise. Those always got to me, like the rigorous, full-throttle sounds of sex.
His back begins to shake on the tenth lift, and I know he only has one or two left in him. But he powers on, pressing out three more before he collapses beneath me.
“Thirteen.” He grunts, breathing heavily. “Fuck.”
I slide off his back and stretch out alongside him. “You’ll get there.”
“Yeah.” He inches toward me and brushes the hair from my face. “I will.”
We goof around the house for the rest of the day, doing mundane things, like laundry and housecleaning. He changes the oil on my car, trims back the old oak tree in my yard, and fixes the leaky faucet in the bathroom.
Between him and Trace, Cole is definitely handier around the house, and I’m so grateful for that. But I wouldn’t choose him just because he keeps things in working order. A non-leaky faucet doesn’t top the list of things that are important to me.
Dancing is important to me, and Cole seems to appreciate my need to constantly move my hips, whenever, wherever. Like today, when I crank up my Beyoncé playlist and dance around him while he prepares a late lunch. He doesn’t get annoyed or tell me to grow up. He shakes his head and laughs and tells me I’m beautiful.
Then it’s time for me to go to work.
He walks me to my car, lingering beside the open door as I buckle my seatbelt. Hands on his hips, he stares at the pavement, looking for all the world like he’s seconds from dragging me back into the house.
The cords in his neck go taut. His expression hardens, and it takes him long uncomfortable seconds to meet my eyes. I know the question is coming before he asks it.
“Will you come home tonight?”
I ache to siphon all the pain from his posture, but I won’t lie to him. “I don’t know.” Stretching toward him, I touch his stubborn jaw and guide his gaze to mine. “I won’t have sex with him.”
His nostrils flare, and he grips the back of his neck.
“Is this too much?” Worry tinges my voice. “Are you miserable? Because I can’t bear—”
“As long as you’re not fucking him, I can handle this. I’m just… I’m being a selfish prick.”
My breath stutters. “I’m the one who’s selfish. I’m dating two—”
“No, Danni.” He crouches beside me and leans into the car to hug my waist. “I did this to you. I put you in this position because of decisions I made. I’m fully prepared to pay for that.”
“Cole—”
“Make no mistake. This is the most important fight of my life, and I’m going to give it all I got.” His timbre scratches, gruff with emotion. “I might not have trained for this, but I was trained to win. And winners never quit.”
Cole is decidedly some kind of soldier. Retired or not, the snake is his spirit animal and venomous aggression burns hotly in his blood. So I’m not at all surprised when he shows up at Trace’s restaurant later that night.
When he ambles in, I’m on the circular platform at the center of the dining room, four hours into my belly dance routine. He doesn’t look at me, his attention on the young hostess as he leans down and says something to her. Then he points at the only empty table near the stage.
Trace’s table. Trace isn’t here now, but he’s been in and out all night, sitting in that very spot. He probably reserved it for the evening.
The hostess shakes her head and leads Cole to a different table. But instead of following her, he veers through the dining room toward me.
He got his hair cut. Faded up the sides and spiked on top, it’s similar to the high-and-tight style he wore when we met, only more rebellious. And way sexier.
Dressed in dark jeans and a black collared shirt, he sits at Trace’s table a few feet away and lifts his gaze to mine. I don’t let the clean-shaved face, nice clothes, and new hair cut fool me. He’s up to no good.
The hostess rushes over, and he crooks a finger at her. When she bends down, his lips form one word. Menu.