Page 26 of Resistance Training

Finally his hands are finding their way back to my butt.

Measured strokes up the back of my thigh to my booty, circling, lightly pinching, fanning outward and then kneading the mound of flesh with both hands.

Methodically. With determination. He keeps grunting, almost in response, like he’s having a silent conversation with himself, but there’s still so much restraint.

It is so frustrating, and I can’t tell if I like it or not, and I hate that.

I take a deep breath and try to wait for him to do whatever he’s planning on doing, but…

Nope.

Can’t.

“You actually think you’re doing this as part of my personal training, don’t you?”

“You are a foolish new client who needs extra guidance and care.”

He presses down on both butt cheeks with the full weight of his upper body, and it feels so good, I cry out. “Oh, God! Yes! Don’t stop!”

He stops.

He goes back to circling and kneading the other cheek.

That feels good too, but I really hate him right now.

“So, you do this for all your new clients?”

“No, I don’t. Would you like me to stop doing this for you?”

“No. Aren’t you going to ask how the pressure is?”

“How’s the pressure, Vivian?”

“The pressure between my legs is fucking unbearable, Mitch! Could you put your knee up in there at least?”

“Trust the process, Vivian.”

“The Good Form process? Am I your fuel, your fire, your fortress, or a fracture?”

“Right now you’re a fucking pain in the ass.”

Slap.

Slap.

Freeze.

Quiver.

The stinging sensation is the divine shock to the system that I needed, but it’s not enough.

He caresses both cheeks, soothing them. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop.” I remove the scarf from my face and rest on my elbows, clenching my fists. “I want you to go. You have the green light. Why are you keeping us both on the edge when you can have me any way you want me here and now?!”

He slowly stands. “You literally said I could punish you.”

“I was hoping your big, hard cock would get involved at some point!”

“God, you’ve got a filthy mouth, Vivian.”

“Don’t you want to know what I can do with it?”

“Jesus.”

I press myself up to a sitting position, and now I’m face-to-face with the absolutely enormous bulge in his jeans. “Oh my God, Brad, that must be so painful.” I reach for it, mostly out of concern.

He swipes my hand away and takes a step back. “Don’t.”

“Bradley.”

I start to stand up, but he holds his hand up so powerfully, I sit right back down on the sofa, very still.

Yes. Sir.

He’s staring at my nether region, and I am just now realizing that I’m naked from my waist to just above the knees.

Naked, with my arousal dripping down the inside of my thigh.

Frowning, he appears to be thinking things through. He grunts again, licks his lips, flicks at the stubble on his jaw, and says, “Fuck it.”

Brad lowers himself to his knees, very carefully. Pushes my knees apart, very slowly. Hooks my legs over his shoulders, decisively. Reaches under me to squeeze my ass with one hand, uses the thumb of his other hand to expose my clit, and then says, “You asked for it, Sparky.”

He proceeds to give me what I asked for.

With his beautiful mouth and his warm, skillful tongue.

The friction of his stubble against the skin of my inner thighs is heavenly, and I hope it scrapes me bad enough to leave me raw and pink.

He licks and swirls and flicks and sucks and fucks me with his tongue.

He says nothing with words, but his moan tells me I taste so good.

The way he pants and grunts as his tongue savors and taunts and pleasures me, I’m hearing that I’m so hot and wet and perfect.

But Brad Mitchell is exactly as determined and methodical as he was when he was massaging my ass, and I don’t even care because it only takes me about thirty seconds to come.

I orgasm all over his face for somewhere between a minute and a year.

Trembling and humming and then undulating and screaming. I hit high notes that I usually only hit singing ABBA songs when it’s raining. And he never stops squeezing my ass or fucking me with his tongue.

He doesn’t give me a hand to buck against or a moment to catch my breath when the orgasm subsides.

Because he doesn’t let the orgasm subside.

He grabs onto my hips and pulls me into him as he sucks hard on my clit and then punishes me in the best, meanest way possible.

He sits up taller, wrapping his arms around my waist, and tongue-fucks me from a whole new angle.

This man is really giving my lady business the business.

Relentlessly. It’s too much, but not really.

I come again. This time convulsing, calling out his name the way I would if he’d burst through the door and pointed a gun at me.

Brad is breathing as hard as I am. This time he just holds me by my waist and lets me flop around until I am limp like a ragdoll.

He lowers me back down to the sofa, tries to catch his breath.

I lick my lips and open my mouth to say that it’s my turn, but before I can form the words, he rolls back onto the rug, pulling me down with him.

I’m on my hands and knees, and he slides down between my legs, on his back, the way a mechanic rolls under a car to work on the undercarriage, forcing me to mount his face and ride his tongue.

I curse and I curse at him, try to pull away at first, and then some part of my blissed-out brain reminds me that he could disappear at any minute.

My blissed-out body finally remembers how it feels to be me.

So I arch my back and roll my hips and comb my fingers through my long, wild hair like a fucking goddess.

I curse at Brad some more until he silences me by sucking on my clit again, and he might never stop.

I’m bucking my hips. It’s the most terrible, horrible, incredible thing I’ve ever felt.

It’s antagonistic and so generous, abrupt and endless.

He spanks me just once. A punctuation. A short, sharp, shock.

This orgasm is a jolt, and then it keeps passing through me like an angry, sexy ghost.

And then I just kind of sink down to the floor.

Brad is no longer between my legs or under me at all.

I float into oblivion, drift in and out of consciousness, or maybe I’m dreaming and then I wake up again.

Who knows how much time has passed. A throw blanket is covering my lower body.

Brad is standing over me, holding a glass of water, looking like he totally didn’t just devastate me and give me a lower-body workout in the best, craziest way imaginable.

Bradley.

My Bradley.

All grown up and he should have to carry a license for that tongue of his because it is an assault weapon.

I am too tired to feel the jealous rage in my body, but I will wake up at four thirty in the morning, aching all over but mostly in my brain, wondering how many women he’s done that to. I don’t want to know. It makes me sad and furious and weirdly proud, but mostly ragey.

He’s wearing his beanie and probably has his phone in his back pocket.

No sign of that third arm he was hiding in his jeans earlier.

He crouches down and guides me to sit up so I can replenish my fluids.

I think my undercarriage may be damaged, but she has no complaints.

I take the glass of water and gulp it all down.

He stays there, crouching by me, until I finish.

He holds his hand out, offering to take the glass from me, so I give it to him.

He gets up and disappears to the kitchen.

I hear water running and splashing. He’s washing the glass for me, and I bet he doesn’t just leave it in the sink either—he’ll place it on the drying rack.

It’s considerate of him, but it has nothing to do with feelings.

He isn’t doing it because he cares about me—that’s just how he is.

When he walks back out, he stops a few feet away from me.

“Well. I think I’ve learned my lesson, Coach.”

“Don’t call me Coach. That will never happen again. It shouldn’t have happened. No one can know that it happened?—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it, Mitch. You’re off the hook.”

He nods. “I’m going to go. I need to get back to the kitten.” He gestures at the blanket he placed over my naked hoohah. “It didn’t feel right to go to the bedroom to find something for you to wear, so…”

“Yeah, this is fine. Thank you.”

“I can help you up.”

“I think I’ll just stay on the floor for a while.”

He clears his throat. “Your legs probably feel weak right now, but they’ll get stiff again, so you should walk around.”

“Well. I guess that’s another lesson I’ll have to learn by making yet another mistake.”

He nods and looks at the front door, then back to me. “Are you okay?”

“Sure. Thanks for the ride.”

He frowns at that. “I’ll see you at the gym on Monday. Right?”

I give him a thumbs-up. Like an emoji-diss, but with my actual thumb. I hope it feels as cold to him as the lack of kissing did to me.

He takes a few steps toward the front door, then says, “I saw Hairy Styles while you were passed out. He looks good.”

I nod. Give him another thumbs-up.

“You should drink more water before bed,” he advises. I lazily watch his butt as he walks away, and then he goes out the front door. Before he closes it all the way, he says, “Do not forget to lock this.”

Thumbs-up.

And he’s gone.

I hope he doesn’t text me that he had a nice time tomorrow, so I can be mad at him for something other than being way too good at oral sex.

And for not reading my emails. And for being so hot.

And for not kissing me or touching my boobs.

And for not letting me love him the way I want to.

And for not being madly in love with me the way he could have been if he’d just waited for me to catch up eight years ago.