Page 4 of Kiss-Fist (Deaf Hearts #1)

The machine moves when I do. It’s not like a treadmill that’s going to fling me into the wall in those workout disaster videos that Mellie loves so much. My heart settles a bit as I use the handles to help me pick up speed.

My dick bounces.

Yeah, okay. This isn’t so bad after all. It’s kind of nice.

I can totally do this!

No. I totally can’t do this.

Oh my god. This is how I go. I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack. I can feel the beat in my throat, and my chest, and pretty much every body part with access to an artery.

And my dick is now ten sizes too small. I bet it’s fallen off.

It’s been what, an hour of this torture? Two hours? No, probably more like ten.

I glance at the timer and see a little blinking 7:22.

Seven minutes? Is this hell ?

I can’t breathe, and I’m pretty confident that he can hear me wheezing. I’m almost positive this sound is not hot.

A large arm reaches past me and hits the Stop button.

My legs slow on their own until they’re just gently rocking, and eventually, they still.

I swear I can taste my pulse. My gaze wanders over to him, and in the process, I think I go a little cross-eyed.

But he doesn’t do anything but smile at me, lifting his hands and flicking his wrist in a very well-done sign.

‘Finished.’

‘Where did you learn that?’ I ask him. Maybe the seven was for seven hours, and he became conversationally proficient on a website? But it’s obvious from the expression on his face he doesn’t understand.

I hop off, and my legs wobble so hard I almost trip. Mr. Nipple Dimple Thom catches me with a firm arm around my waist, and in spite of hating him and the damn beefy gym horse he most assuredly rode in on, I lean against him. Jesus, a man who works at a gym has no right to smell so nice.

I take a deep breath as he guides me over to the weight benches, and I collapse with a sense of gratitude I’ll be regretting later. He offers non-crotch water in a plastic bottle, and as I gulp it down, it soothes my dry throat.

‘Thank you.’

‘Welcome.’

Two signs. Interesting. I’d ask him where he picked them up, but my arms are too shaky to reach into my pocket for my phone.

I stare up at him instead, and he stares back.

His eyes are full of mirth, his lips twisted up in a small smirk.

I’d love to kiss that expression off his face. I’d love to see that mouth form pleas.

He looks over his shoulder and says something, and the moment shatters.

I really think the lack of oxygen to my brain did something to me. I’m full-on fantasizing about this guy now.

It’s that, or illegal substances really are being pumped through the vents. I could believe either at this point.

But the reality is, no matter how much my dick wants, nothing can happen. I don’t date hearing people, and I don’t hook up with them if I can help it. I’m a teacher. I have to deal with college kids all damn day. I don’t want to go home and teach my partner.

And I don’t want to give myself to someone like that only for things to most likely not work out. Deaf and hearing relationships usually fall apart for a reason.

And while there are the exceptions, like my sister, I doubt with my luck that I’d be one. No, Nipple Dimple Thom and I can never be more than spank-bank fantasy that I intend to use the moment I have full use of my arms again.

I sigh and take another swig of water, dribbling some down my chin.

Seems I’ve lost the ability to swallow too. How sad. That was a very good skill set to have.

Swiping at the wetness, I mentally chastise myself. I’m not going to fantasize about this man anymore. Then Thom bends over, tying his shoe, his ass on full display. Between one blink and the next, I’m fantasizing about sticking my face right between those hard globes.

Damn it !

I lasted a millisecond.

He stands up and turns toward me, and I tell myself that I’ll be starting now. It’s just hard to focus when someone is this good-looking. I’m not used to it. Maybe this is why I’ve avoided the gym all these years. Not only is exercising a deterrent, but the hot men are intimidating.

But before I can work myself into major anxiety, he stops and points to his chest. ‘Thom.’

I mean, I knew that already, but I realize he’s showing off his fingerspelling skills. I cock my head as he does it again. He spells it accurately this time too. So I return the gesture.

‘Robbie.’

I have to spell and mouth it several times before he gets it. But something swells in me when he does.

I like that he understands me, so I offer him my sign name—the one I use at school, not the jackass one my brothers gave me—and he repeats it. I give him the Deaf applause, hands waving in the air.

He grins widely, showing me those damn dimples again.

My happiness fades when Thom points to the dumbbells sitting in a nice row before me. Fuck. I want to whimper and plead to die. But I hold the dramatics back as he hands me two very small weights.

I stare at them, blushing when I see that they’re only four pounds.

He must really think I’m a weakling.

I mean, to be fair, I am. The seven minutes of hell on that running machine was pretty telling.

As soon as they’re in my grip, my shaking arms fall to my sides. My elbows crack, and I feel a blush spread through my cheeks. This is deplorable. I need my arms and hands to sign, to communicate. If I work out too hard, I won’t be able to lift them. Rhett will never let me live it down.

Thom mimes lifting them, and I stagger to my feet and try to follow his lead. He touches me far too much, correcting me without using words. And I’m so flustered that I don’t even notice the bulge in the front of my pants.

Seems my dick didn’t fall off after all.

Shame.

Honestly, at this rate, you’d think all the blood would currently be in my arms with the weight I’m lifting, but it seems I have an extra supply of it just for my dick.

Thom is standing right in front of me now, both of his strong hands on my arms, his veins popping out, helping me lift them above my head. I’m panting, sweat rolling down my temples, and all I can think of, all I can feel, are his hands on me.

Why is this so hard?

Why am I so hard?

Oh, fuck me. I’m fully erect. It’s tenting my pants. It’s so obvious.

If he looks down, he’ll wonder if I’m suggesting a camping trip. In my pants.

My arms drop to my sides, and I turn around, setting the weights down and subtly trying to stick my dick under my waistband.

I fail. It’s so clear what I’m doing. No one can miss it.

One buff guy even winks at me from across the room, and I want to melt into a puddle on the floor and slide down the drain.

I need a minute. I need time to calm down. Not even looking his way, I scuttle toward the locker rooms, my eyes laser focused on where I’m walking so I don’t accidentally run into anyone. When I’m finally inside, I move to an empty row of lockers and press my head against the cool metal.

I’ve lost my mind. Really, I have. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore. Maybe I need to get a life.

I stare down at my crotch and sigh.

It seems I may be desperate. Maybe I wrote my thing off with Roman too soon.

A hand taps my shoulder, and I spin around, seeing Thom standing there, concern on his face.

His shirt looks even smaller now. I think it shrunk since I arrived.

It’s now just a strip of fabric down the middle of his chest and has snagged on his torso, showing off his tiger tattoo and his belly button.

And that little happy trail.

My eyes quickly slam upward and into his. His lips are pursed, and the concern on his face hasn’t abated.

I pull my phone out with trembling hands and quickly type out a message. I have zero desire to try and teach him signs. My patience is paper-thin.

Me: I’m done.

I show it to him, and his lips turn into a frown.

He takes my phone from my hand, his fingers sliding against mine and making me bite down on my bottom lip hard.

Thom: ‘U hut? ’

I stare at it and meet his gaze. His eyebrow arches, and I sigh. I honestly don’t know what that means. Hut? Hurt? Sex? Want to have sex with me?

No. Probably hurt.

I shake my head and then sign no.

He seems to understand, and he takes a step back. But he doesn’t leave, just continues to stare at me. A second later, he reaches for my phone again and quickly types something out. When it’s back in my hands, I stare down at his message.

Thom: ‘Cum bk when you feel btr.’

Oh god, don’t say cum . For fuck’s sake.

I want to shake my head and sign hell no I’m not coming back here, but I end up just shrugging, noncommittal. That’s the best I can do. Seems I can’t say no to him, which is detrimental to my mental health and sanity.

He seems to accept my shrug and adjusts his hat on his head slightly, showing off his armpits and those biceps again. I’m nearly half-dead by the time I walk to my car.

This was a huge mistake. The biggest one. My arms feel like they’re going to fall off, my legs are overcooked spaghetti, and to top it off, my dick is still hard.

Seems I may be spending my shower time jerking off to Thom, the dimple-having gym bro.

I’ll get a nice forearm workout after all.