Page 3 of Kiss-Fist (Deaf Hearts #1)

His spelling is horrendous . My eyes move from the phone to his nipples, which I swear are winking up at me.

Fuck, he needs to put on more clothes. This is atrocious.

And really, it has to be illegal in most states.

He takes the phone back and begins another agonizingly slow sentence.

Blue Shirt: ‘I’m Thom and this Kyle. Kyle thikns I no asl but I just no som ABCs. Sry. I can do ur appt tho if u wnat.’

I don’t want. I really don’t want.

But I also don’t want to look like some chicken shit who’s scared off by gym bros and sexy nipples and hot tattoos either. And in spite of it all, Dimples— Thom , however you say that name out loud—seems nice.

What doesn’t seem nice is the thought of having to stop every ten seconds for him to pantomime or type on my phone when he’s trying to tell me how to do a workout regime without tearing an ACL or accidentally ripping my shoulders out of the sockets.

I know I’m being overly dramatic about this, but I wouldn’t be me if I weren’t .

Me: ‘I come back when Zev here.’

Thom’s face falls, and he snatches the phone before I can slide it back into my pocket and end the madness. Why does that make me both angry and hot at the same time?

This time, he pushes something on the screen and speaks into it. Oh. Voice text. Not a surprise that I didn’t think of it before, but why didn’t he?

Thom: ‘He won’t be back for like six months. His mom died.’

Well, hell. That’s almost like a gut punch. I don’t know the guy well, but there’s this unspoken rule that the Deaf community is family in ways that hearing people will never understand. I need to make sure I ask Mellie or one of my brothers about this.

And I need to send flowers or…I don’t know. Liquor.

Before I can reply, Thom’s hand reaches out, and he closes his meaty fingers on my forearm.

He doesn’t try to speak again, which is something.

He jerks his head toward the front desk and drags me—metaphorically—kicking and screaming toward a smiling woman and a stack of clipboards with paperwork on them.

It feels like I’m about to sign my soul away, and as I look into his light brown eyes surrounded by dark, dark lashes, I wonder if I’m going to be filled with gratitude or regret.

Those dimples show up again, and I feel myself grow a little light-headed. God damn it. Why am I such a pushover? But ngh , the way I want to sink my tongue into one .

No. Nope. I have rules, and I will not break them to get involved with this hearing person. No matter how amazing he looks or how badly I want to climb him like a tree.

The effort it would take to teach and educate him about not only my language but also my culture isn’t something I want to commit to. I’m far too lazy and much too busy to bother. Dimples and abs or not.

A clipboard is shoved into my hands, and I stare down at it.

I have to sign something. But I already did this.

Mellie sent me a link that wasted a full fifteen minutes of my time signing release forms and other stuff swearing not to hold the gym responsible if I break the rules and then break my neck.

I sigh and then take my phone out to tell him.

Me: Did this already online.

He reads it and then jerks his head toward the gym floor. When I don’t move fast enough, he grabs onto my wrist once more and pulls me forward.

I’ve never been manhandled so much in my entire life. And while I protest against it mentally, my body goes willingly .

God, the way I’d let him throw me around a room… No , damn it. I refuse. I have my rules for a reason.

As we walk through the gym, I see Thom making conversation with other gym members, pointing to his crotch and smiling. He’s not even embarrassed about it. He seems like perpetual sunshine, and next to him, I’m a rain cloud on a gloomy day. I wouldn’t be smiling and joking about wet pants.

I’d have run home and changed. And then maybe refused to show my face for a week.

I’m fun like that.

Finally, we come to a stop in front of an elliptical machine.

I only know what this is called because I may have watched a few too many YouTube videos with half-naked men using them.

The way their asses move and bunch while they’re on them is quite the sight.

And sometimes if I squint with one eye, I can catch a glimpse of their dicks bouncing.

I stare at the machine and then meet Thom’s gaze. He points to it and then fingerspells run.

Well, he tries to fingerspell run and ends up spelling out tun , but it’s the thought that counts.

And really. Me? Run ? The only time I run is to my couch after a long day at work.

And trust me, when my legs pick up any kind of speed, my dick does not bounce. It shrivels up, scared of what all the movement is for. It’s fight or flight for my privates, and, I’m sorry to say, it flights.

Flees?

Whatever. It ends up much smaller than it should be, which means if I listen to Thom, I’m going to embarrass myself in this room full of hot men. So, no, thank you.

I scoff and fold my arms across my chest.

He cocks his head, and I arch an eyebrow at him. With a laugh, he glances at his hand, frowns, and tries again.

‘ Sun . ’

My other eyebrow flies up, and I hold up the letter R , correcting him.

He grins at me, nods his head, and copies my hand motion, fingerspelling correctly this time. When I nod, he grins like he’s just won some kind of award. I hate how good he looks when he smiles.

But I can’t even be mad about it because he’s so hot, and damn , his face is adorable.

I shake my head. I may get on this machine, but I’m not running . Especially not in front of him. I would probably end up dying, and this is not how I want to go.

My eyes flick to his chest, and I hold back a long-suffering sigh.

Mr. Nipple Dimple cocks his head toward the death machine and smiles.

Fuck me. I’m helpless. I find myself reaching for the handles as I lift one foot, then the other.

The pedals are like a little tray where my feet fit, but it moves precariously, and I feel a noise rumble against the back of my throat as I clutch on for dear life.

This is harder than it looks.

Those dick bouncers are skilled athletes. I didn’t give them enough credit.

Shame on me and my pervy eyeballs.

From the peripheral, I see Thom laughing, but it doesn’t seem like he’s laughing at me.

I hate that. Why can’t he be an asshole about this?

It would make everything so much easier.

Instead, he gently places one hand on my arm and then makes a V with his fingers and touches both eyes, then taps his chest. It’s not exactly a sign, but it’s close enough.

‘Watch me. ’

He touches a button on the machine that says Start. Like I couldn’t have figured that on my own. I’m a damn doctor. I mean, I have a doctorate, but still. It counts. As I start attempting to move, I laser focus in on his chest, and I swear his nipples are saying hello.

Perhaps an illegal gas is filtering through the gym vents and I’m getting high.

That’s a very probable possibility.

Mr. Nipple Dimples touches an up arrow and then lifts his hands.

‘F A R D E R.’

Nope. Not a clue. ‘Again,’ I repeat, then almost lose my balance after letting go of the handles. He’s got me though, his fingers landing on my hips. I don’t wobble much, but my dick does. Wobbles right out from between my legs.

Thom licks his lips—obscene, really—then spells the same word again, but his lips form a word, and I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Harder.’

Oh god. Harder. Yes.

Please.

Holding on to one handle, I take my phone out of my pocket and offer it to him. Listen, I’m already in this, I might as well just go all the damn way. And not the fun kind either. It’s not like I’ll be back.

No, I’ll just envision him in my dreams, cum in his dimples and my cock in his hole.

Thom smiles at me, not knowing my pervy thoughts, and my dick threatens to get hard. I take a deep breath and deliberately refuse to watch his fingers fly over the screen. He taps my hand and offers it back.

Thom: ‘The up aro increaes the tension, down aro makes it ez.’

There’s a thousand percent chance my phone’s autocorrect fixed the word tension for him. A small part of my brain wants to laugh, but the teacher part who isn’t a total dickhead knows that it’s probably a learning disability, and I’d be the biggest asshole on the planet if I mocked him for this.

And honestly, it makes him even hotter.

I tip my hand from my chin and nod. ‘Thank you. I’ve got it from here. Run along, hot man.’

He clearly only understood thank you, but he lets go and takes a step back, then folds his arms across his chest. His biceps bulge. God almighty. He looks like he has cleavage in his V-neck, and I have a feeling I’m going to be dreaming about burying my face in his pecs tonight.

How would I sign motorboating? Can I motorboat a man?

I don’t know the answer to either of these and will have to spend a lot of time researching this.

I turn away because this time, my dick no longer wobbles and is now sporting half a chub.

It will be visible through my pants if I get any harder.

So I hit the Start button instead, and there’s a little countdown on the screen in red numbers.

The machine vibrates gently under my hands, which are clinging to the metal parts of the handles.

I wasn’t really intimidated before, mostly horny, but suddenly, the elliptical dashboard looks like it belongs on a spaceship. I really am going to die. I wait for my legs to move, but they don’t .

I glance over at Thom, and my brows fly up, and I hold my hands up like, ‘What the hell?’

Thom laughs again—and this time, I feel a little bit like it’s at me, but I probably deserve it.

This is quite pathetic. He steps forward, then kneels down and puts his hands behind my knees.

Oh, fuck me, they feel nice. So warm and— “Oh!” I feel the noise slip out as he begins to gently rock my legs in a marching motion.