Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 183150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 916(@200wpm)___ 733(@250wpm)___ 611(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 916(@200wpm)___ 733(@250wpm)___ 611(@300wpm)
He punches the code in. ‘It’s eleven, twenty seven, fifteen,’ He glances at me with a small smile. ‘For future reference,’ He holds the gates open.
‘I’ll never remember that.’ I call over my shoulder as I pass him, starting my jog towards the Thames. I can do this, I can do this. I repeat the mantra – and the code – over and over in my head. I’ve not ran for three weeks now, but I refuse to let him get the better of me.
He’s caught up with me and running alongside me within a few yards. I look up to his lean loveliness. Does this man do anything badly? He runs like his upper body is disconnected from his lower body, his legs transporting his tall, lean body with ease. I’m determined to keep up with him, even though his pace is a little faster than I would normally take.
I get into my stride and we run along the river in a comfortable silence, throwing each other glances every now and then. Jesse is right – running in the morning is really quite relaxing. The city isn’t quite in full swing, the traffic is mainly delivery vans and there are no horns or sirens ringing in my ears. The air is surprisingly fresh and cool too. I might be changing my running pattern.
Half an hour later, we hit St James’s Park and follow the green lushness at a steady pace. I feel surprisingly good, considering I’ve run somewhere near four miles already. I glance up at Jesse, who’s putting his hand up to every fellow runner as they pass – all women – who smile brightly at Jesse and eye me suspiciously. I roll my eyes at the desperate losers, glancing up to gage his reaction, but he looks completely unaffected by both the women and the running. That was probably just his warm up.
‘Okay?’ he asks on a half-smile as he looks down at me.
I’m not talking. That’s a sure way to puff me out, and I’m doing really well at the moment. I nod and return my focus on the path ahead of us, willing my muscles not to give up. I have a point to prove.
We maintain our steady pace, making our way around St James’s Park, eventually reaching The Green Park. I glance up again and still see a completely unaffected, virtually refreshed face and body running next to me. Okay, I’m feeling it now, and I don’t know whether it’s my fatigue, or the fact that crazy man here is increasing his pace, but I’m struggling to keep up. We’ve got to be knocking on nine miles now. I’ve never ran nine miles in my life. If I had my iPod with me, I would be hitting the button for my power track, right about now.
We hit Piccadilly and I start to feel my lungs burning, my breath getting harder to keep steady and constant. I think I may have hit the proverbial runner’s wall. I’ve never ran far enough to hit it before, but I can now completely appreciate the meaning of the statement. I feel like I’m pushing against a ton of bricks wedged in sand.
I must not give up.
Oh, it’s no good. I’m bloody shattered. I detour off of the road and into The Green Park, collapsing, unceremoniously, onto the grass in a sweaty, overheated heap. I lay spread eagled, dragging valuable air into my overworked lungs. I don’t care that I’ve given up. That’s my personal best achievement. Man, he can run.
I close my eyes and concentrate on taking in deep breaths. I feel sick. The cool morning air invading my sprawled body is most welcome, until it’s swallowed up by a hunk of leanness closing in on me from above. I open my eyes, finding a gaze so green, it could rival the trees surrounding us.
‘Baby, did I wear you out?’ He grins around his words.
Jesus, he’s not even broke a sweat. I, on the other hand, can’t even talk. I heave underneath him, like the running loser that I am, letting him smother my face with kisses. I must taste God awful.
‘Hmmm, sweat and sex.’ He licks my cheek and rolls us over so I’m sprawled across his stomach. I proceed to pant and wheeze all over him as he runs his firm palms all over my sweaty back. My chest feels tight. Can you have a heart attack at twenty six?
When I’ve finally got my breathing under control, I push my hands into his chest and straddle his hips, sitting up on his body. ‘Please don’t make me run home.’ I plead. I think I could possibly die. He places his hands under his head, all casual and amused by my laboured breathing and sweaty face. His toned arms look edible as they flex. I could just about muster up the energy to lean down and take a bite.