Page 10

Water rolls down my back and chest as I stand under the freezing cold shower. It’s doing nothing to quell the heat still coursing through me. I give up the fight and grip my cock in my hand.

The dreams left me insatiable last night, vivid and so real. I woke up with the most painful hard-on I’ve had in years, and it won’t go away. I swore I wouldn’t jack off thinking of a woman who I’ve never had a real conversation with and who may actively hate me. Probably.

And who I’m not really sure I like either. She’s fucking stubborn and infuriating as hell. And that temper.

An image appears of Leah bent over in front of me, my hands on her luscious hips as I pound into her.

Damn.

I’m immune to the effects of the cold water, and I see stars when I come. My head feels a little clearer and I try to shake the images away, scrubbing at my skin and focusing on the way the rivulets of water trace my tattoos .

Not many people know I have them. I’m highly cautious when I change and mostly wear long-sleeved shirts. The black ink whirls up my left arm, covering it in a mosaic of overlapping wings and flowers. It’s a stunning piece of art, but I keep it secret so I can keep it safe.

It’s no use—nothing can keep my focus for long, and I’m already getting hard again. I finish up, relieving myself once more before getting out of the shower. It was pointless anyway seeing as I’m about to head off on my morning run.

The woman who starred in my salacious dreams sent out an email with the finalized itinerary for the stag and doe weekend. I couldn’t help smiling when I saw she had chosen a race. A half marathon—scheduled for after playoffs, in June next year, seven months away.

Imagining her face as she angrily typed out those words gave me a sense of satisfaction I’ve rarely felt. From what little I know of her, I’m guessing she doesn’t give in easily, so to have won this particular battle is rewarding. Picturing her angry face was what stuck with me, refusing to leave.

And then images of her running, sweating while crossing the finish line, determined to prove me wrong.

Damn, the race. It’s going to be ridiculously hot that time of year in Vegas. A seed of guilt worms its way into my stomach as I lace up my shoes and head out the door.

Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it. I barely know some of the other wedding party members. Maybe there are other people who don’t enjoy running. I shouldn’t have pushed for it. I could blame Leah for riling me up by arguing with me .

Antagonizing her was thrilling, and I couldn’t help it.

And there I go again, thinking of Leah and her anger. Her expressive green eyes as she glared at me on the houseboat. I’d love to see her glare while I sink into her slowly. I’d provoke her to the brink of her anger and desire and then ...

What the hell is wrong with me?

I concentrate on my heavy steps, watching my feet as they meander across the pavement. The run’s calming effects don’t last for longer than ten minutes because I hear an angry voice that awakens my entire body.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” the voice whispers from my left.

I lock down all my emotions, forcing my body not to react when I turn my head and see Leah walking briskly down the connecting path. That’s when I realize I’ve stopped to stare.

“W-What are you doing here?” My low voice practically growls.

That delicious anger flashes in her eyes and I feel my skin begin to itch with need. I need to go to therapy.

“I didn’t realize you own the paths,” she spits.

She’s right beside me now and I take a peek into the stroller. Her son—Levi, I think his name is—is playing with some sort of ball tethered to the bar of the stroller. He throws it and it comes right back up to him. Genius.

“Do you have a problem?” she asks, pulling my attention away from her kid, whose green eyes match his mother’s.

“No,” I say, and somehow we begin walking side by side.

“What are you doing?” she asks when I don’t begin running .

“Walking.”

“I can see that. Weren’t you on a run?”

“Yes.”

She sighs dramatically, and I can’t stop the quirk of my lips. Luckily, she’s staring ahead so she doesn’t see.

“Well.” She sounds flustered. “You can go on ahead, I’m sure your giant legs can run quickly away.”

I shrug, not knowing why I stay with her.

The sunrise gives the illusion of her spitting flames. She’s breathtaking. I thought she was beautiful at the party but here, with her fresh face and her short hair pulled back in two tight braids along the sides of her head, she’s stunning.

If only her personality wasn’t so abrasive, I might be able to handle spending more time with her.

Her black leggings hug her full ass, and the loose T-shirt she’s wearing—it reads “My body type is: exercises but loves food”—does nothing to hide the curves of her chest. I spot a tattoo on her forearm. It’s pretty, the black fine lines forming three daisies from a single stem. I want to ask her about it but I know tattoos can be personal.

“Seriously, you aren’t going to say anything?”

“No.”

“Fine.” She walks a little faster and then begins to run, but she’s slow and her form is all wrong. My guess is she’s never run before, which would explain her vehement protests against the race. Guilt sinks heavily, weighing me down.

I pick up my feet and jog up beside her .

“What are you doing?” she asks again, sounding like a broken record.

“Running.”

“Are you always going to give me one-word answers?”

“Probably.”

She speeds up, but I can tell she won’t be able to keep the pace up for long. The momentum of her arms is hindered because she’s pushing the stroller. I’d offer to take it from her, to make it easier. Because I’m not an asshole like she thinks. Well, not completely. But I’m not a complete fool either. I know I can’t do that.

Sure enough, she begins to slow down.

I keep pace with her, not minding as much as I probably should. I could keep going, but I don’t.

She drops to a walk, her breath heaving out of her chest. Her cheeks are flushed, and I can’t tell if it’s from the exertion or something else. Because if I’m reading her face correctly, she seems vulnerable, her cold mask slipping. Is she embarrassed? What should I say?

“Is that all you can run?”

Her face flames.

Damn, that was the wrong thing to say. That’s not what I meant.

“Yes, jackass, that’s all I can run.”

At least she doesn’t look vulnerable anymore.

“I-I just meant ...” I say slowly, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts in my head. I don’t know what else to say. The words are stuck as I try and fail not to stutter .

“You just meant what? It was pathetic? I should be able to do more? I already know that.”

“You’re not p-pathetic.” I don’t like how she’s talking about herself. It rubs me the wrong way. I may think she’s too temperamental, but she’s definitely not pathetic.

She picks up into a slow run again, and I count to a minute before she stops again.

“See? Pathetic. That was barely a minute, but it felt like an hour.”

I don’t think she’s talking to me anymore.

“How am I supposed to do a fucking half marathon if I can’t even run for longer than a minute?”

“You don’t have to do it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Isabel isn’t running,” I point out.

“Isabel is not Paige’s older sister.” She says this as though it should mean something to me, but I’m not connecting the dots.

“So?”

“She’ll be happy if I do it.”

She begins to run again. Maybe I can keep her distracted. I glance at my watch and begin timing.

“Y-You’re not happy.”

“I am happy,” she spits at me. The tone of her voice contradicts the words, and I raise my brows as if to say, “You don’t sound happy.”

She rolls her eyes when I don’t say anything. “I’m not happy now, jackass. I hate running.”

“That’s your own fault.” I’m learning where to push her buttons. Her anger thrills me. It emboldens me .

“Excuse me?”

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“There’s a wrong way to run?” Her voice has gone up an octave.

“Your steps are too heavy,” I point out.

She snorts. “Says you. I could hear your elephant steps from a mile away.”

“One point six kilometres,” I correct. Americans and their aversion to the metric system.

Leah grunts in response, but I see her attempt to change the way she’s stepping.

“Land on your midsole,” I instruct quietly.

Surprisingly, she does as I say. The change is immediate. The slapping of her heel-to-toe gait becomes less noticeable. Her brows pinch together. I don’t think she likes that I was right.

“My steps are loud because I am large,” I point out. “You’re small, so you shouldn’t have that problem.”

Her steps slow and she walks again. I check my watch.

“That was two minutes.”

Her head whips towards me. “Really?”

If I thought her anger was sexy, it’s nothing compared to her joy. Her whole face lights up for a moment before she realizes who she’s talking to and her adorable scowl returns. She’s too slow, though. I caught the moment.

“R-Really,” I answer, not wanting to push it too far. We seem to have come to some sort of truce.

When I continue to match her pace, she glares.

“Are you planning on following me the whole time?” she asks .

I shrug in response, earning me another eye-roll.

We stay silent for a while, Leah setting the pace, walking and running in intervals. She doesn’t tell me to leave her alone, so I count that as a good sign.

We make a loop around the park until we come back to the path she came from. I could tell she was focusing on her steps, her face set in determination.

Her intervals stayed around the one-minute mark, but I can tell she’s being held back by her self-doubt. I know the feeling well. Maybe I can help her.

If she’ll let me.

She hesitates at the path leading to wherever she came from. I’m not sure if she drove here to run or if she lives nearby. I wait for her to say something, not wanting to push my luck. I’d probably say the wrong thing.

But apparently, I can’t help myself.

“You did better than I thought.”

Her face scrunches up, anger flaring in those vivid eyes.

“Fuck you.”