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I don’t know why this happens. But watching him specifically as he pummels that bag, all the power rippling along the core of his body, through the muscles, and exiting his fists in powerful punch after punch, has that effect on me.

A quick glance at the other regular, also punching a boxing bag, confirms the lack of pussy pulse. I verify that it was definitely the man and not just the action, almost nodding at the job well done in analyzing the situation successfully. This was adult woman's homework. And excellent motivation to stay on the treadmill.

By the time he is finished, so am I. I am exhausted, and I’m horny.

It looks suspicious that I stop the treadmill when he stops his workout, but I cannot continue.

My legs are on fire, and my muscles warn me that I will pay for this voyeurism tomorrow.

I don’t care. I had accumulated a good couple of pictures in my mind to use later, just before bedtime.

Six months ago, I couldn’t even entertain a sexual thought for a minute. Now, I craved release. Probably more so because I hadn’t slept with a man in over two and a half years. James’ tumor left little room for intimacy toward the end, but I didn’t blame him. No one asked for what happened.

I smile, thinking how far I have come. Lately, it has become easier and easier to think of James, not with pain but with some joy. Before, his memory was tainted by only the end. Now, I remember some of the good times.

“Sienna, just the person I am looking for.” Big Mike, the owner of this fine establishment, is suddenly standing before me. For a big man, he is stealthy.

He isn’t called Big Mike for nothing—just muscles and testosterone. But underneath, he is a teddy bear, and our shared love for reading has made us fast friends.

“Hey, Big Mike, how’s it going?” I ask, wiping the sweat from my face and sipping water.

“Always good when I see you.” He smiles and winks.

If I didn’t know him better, I would think he was flirting with me. But I did not carry the right weaponry between my legs for this to be anything beyond friendship.

“Remember that guy I was telling you about? The one who might have a job for you,” he prompts, reminding me of the conversation Ihad with him a couple of weeks ago about looking for a part-time job somewhere while I figure things out.

Thanks to James’s life policy, which I didn’t even know about until after his death, I wasn't strapped for money. But I wanted to do something to relieve the boredom that had etched its way into my everyday existence.

Even my job as a freelance editor had lost the shine it once had.

“Damon!” Big Mike shouts out, my gaze whipping over to look at the man I have been ogling all these months.

The sweat I had wiped from my brow reappears almost instantly and travels down to my hands. I resist the urge to wipe them against my tights, sure that action will give away my nervousness. As if the shock plastered all over my face isn’t doing the job.

The critters in my stomach procreate and multiply until I feel like I might throw up.

Sweet geezus, this was going to be awkward.

Chapter 3

Shadow

“Damon!” Big Mike shouts out, the wicked grin he gives me missed by the woman who has been the sole reason behind the raging hard-on I have had for the last hour. Fuck, the last couple of months is more like it.

Aside from the tight gym attire stuck to her glowing post-workout skin, her not-so-subtle stare on me the entire time I have been here has me on edge. An edge that has images floating around in my mind of me throwing her over my lap right here, pulling those cute pink spandex down, and slapping that delicious ass until it matches her cheeks.

I pull my hoodie on, making sure it covers the extent of my desire.

“Damon, I want you to meet someone.” Big Mike approaches with my obsession in tow, his shit-eating grin telling me I wouldn’t like this interaction.

He knew what she was to me. Knew the insatiable fascination I had. While I wasn’t as obvious as her in her constant perusal of me, it didn’t mean I wasn’t fucking smitten with the woman standingslightly behind Big Mike, her cheeks ablaze.

Certifiably deranged. Some might even say that I was a stalker. While an element of my business involved following people, it never filtered into my private life.

Not until one night in a club when a girl cried on my chest. The tear-stained shirt was tucked away in a box, a souvenir from our first meeting.

Since that day, I have made it my mission to discover everything about her—my Sienna.