Series: Torn and Bound Duet Series by K. Webster
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I stand there just watching.
Knowing he’s undressing to swim.
Waiting to…
Compare myself to him?
I’m not sure.
He bends slightly as he peels off his T-shirt, revealing hard back muscles. His pants are hanging off his waist just low enough I get a glimpse of a hint of his ass crack. With a swift flick of his wrist, he undoes his belt and sends his jeans to the ground.
Tight ass blue fuckin’ spandex shorts.
I’m about to bust my ass up laughing, but then he turns to the side as he pulls off his socks, revealing a form that’s not all that funny. Instead, I’m impressed. His legs are long and lean, but his upper body is cut with muscle, especially his upper back and shoulders. How did I not realize this guy was an athlete? He looks like your typical stoner metal-head weirdo who apparently moonlights as an underwear model.
Once he’s shoved all his clothes into his bag, he rolls his head on his shoulders. I set my own bag down on a bench and sit so I can watch him. It’s probably best I leave, but I’m too invested now. I want to see him swim.
He grabs a white swim cap from the zipper of his bag and then folds the edges back. His biceps flex as he pulls it over his forehead and then begins peeling it down over his hair. He makes quick work of stuffing any stray hairs beneath the latex. After grabbing a pair of goggles, he tugs those into place and then starts to stretch.
It’s fascinating watching him.
I’ve never given two shits about swimming.
But as he bends and swivels and stretches his long limbs, I grow more curious about his abilities. I wonder what sort of stroke he normally swims. I wonder a whole lot about this guy who gets on my nerves.
My eyes do skim over his dick, because it’s almost like he’s putting his junk out there on display wearing that shit. He’s packing, much to my surprise.
“Carter, you going to be at the meet?” some dude calls out from the water.
Ashton’s shoulders tense and then he gives that dude a cocky grin. “Yeah, man. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Right on,” the dude says.
Ashton spends the next few minutes bouncing on his feet and shaking out his arms. Then, he shakes out his shoulders. I’m given no warning for what happens next. He hops onto a small black platform, bends over, then dives in.
And just like that, the place goes quiet as they watch him.
I can see why, too.
He’s a fucking dolphin or some shit.
When he resurfaces a quarter of the way down, he comes out of the water with impressive power. All of his shoulder muscles bulge with each movement. With powerful kicks of his legs that seem fused together, he slices through the water with inhuman speed.
I’m amazed at this asshole’s incredible ability.
He makes it to the end within seconds, flips under the water, and kicks off the edge, then goes at it again. By the time he makes it to the other side, no more than forty or fifty seconds have passed. I’m exhausted for him, but he surprises me when he climbs back out, glares at the water, and then steps back onto the platform.
“Wait for me,” the dude calls out to him.
“Brady, that’s all I do when we race.” Ashton laughs at him.
The dude—Brady—just grins back. They both perch onto their spots and then someone blows a whistle.
Again, Ashton flies through the water. Brady is so far behind him, it’s almost laughable. When I hear a laugh—one that sounds bitter and nasty—I reluctantly drag my gaze over to the sound of it.
Some dickhead is standing near Ashton’s stuff. He manages to stop glaring at the pool long enough to edge closer. There’s intent written all over his twerp face. When he bends over Ashton’s bag, I abandon my own to stalk over to him.
“Yo, not your shit.”
His head whips up and he winces. “What?”
“You know what,” I say lowly. “You’re lingering like you’re going to do something to his bag. Beat it, asshole.”
His lip curls up in disgust. “You don’t belong here, hockey prick.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Something clicks. I know this guy. He was fucking with Mia at the game she came to. Stepping up to him, I poke his chest.
“You don’t belong here, standing over Ashton’s fucking bag, fuckface.”
He tries to stand up to me, but I’m taller, stronger, and meaner. I’m not about to kick someone’s ass and get booted from the hockey team, but I’m also not about to let him creep around Mia’s best friend’s shit.
“What’s up, dick licker?”
Ashton’s smartass words arrive moments before he does. Then, he’s standing beside me, dripping and rippling with a storm of adrenaline and barely suppressed rage. I figure it’s aimed toward me, but he’s staring right at fuckface.