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A few turned out to be five.
And we’re not done yet.
“Tomorrow,” I say, trying not to gasp, “I’m picking the work out.”
Kingston slaps me on the shoulder. “Okay, old man.”
Then he speeds up.
The buzz of competition floods my veins, giving me a second breath and a bit of righteous outrage.
I match him step for step because I’m not old, and he’s not going to win.
As if sensing me pulling abreast, he lengthens his stride. Shit.
It’s okay. I’ve got this. I’m taller. I work out regularly. Though, obviously not as much as Mr. Parkour King.
I give him a shove. He trots around a tree, laughing, and joins me back on the path as if nothing happened.
Just like we didn’t discuss waking up on my sectional sofa this morning, wrapped around each other like pretzels.
He slows his speed, thank goodness.
I have just enough brain power to admit that it was nice to wake up next to a man and even nicer that he obviously didn’t care that he was waking up next tome. But that’s as far as I’m going with that line of thinking. My life is complicated enough without adding another relationship.
Using my t-shirt, I wipe the sweat from my eyes.
The trail narrows, and Kingston zips in front of me, legs eating up the distance. Instead of watching where I’m putting my feet, my eyes are drawn to the slope of his shoulders and his sculpted arms. Fuck, he’s so fit.
I shouldn’t be ogling my running buddy, but I can’t keep my eyes off the muscles rippling down his back. Or the curve of his ass that’s partially hidden by his running shorts.
An errant limb slaps me across the chest, like a sign from the universe to get my head back into the game.
Which is easier said than done.
“See, almost there,” he calls over his shoulder.
A perverse part of me wants to grab his chin and kiss him until he’s breathing as heavily as I am.
But I shake the thought off just in time because we make it to the edge of the park and out onto the sidewalk. A minute later, his watch beeps and he slows to a walk.
My body cries out in relief. Rest. Maybe an ice bath.
But he doesn’t let me stop. Or catch my breath.
“Come on. Keep walking.”
I know what he’s after. A cool down. A proper stretch. Because Kingston Saint is nothing if not proper when it comes to his exercise regimen. Which is fucking hot, not going to lie. I love anyone who’s at the top of their game and dedicated to their craft.
He cozies up to the side of a building and props the toe of his shoe against the wall.
I lean over and clamp my hands over my knees, sucking in a deep breath.
“You gonna be okay?” he asks, genuine concern lacing his tone.
“I see your game plan, Saint.”
“Oh yeah?” He switches feet, stretching his other calf.