Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
I face the barre, adjusting my socks, tugging on my leggings, tightening my ponytail—anything to occupy myself while he walks past me and into the coatroom without a word to stow his things.
“Glad I showed up for class today.” Anna glances over her shoulder at Trevor, her eyes running up then down his body as he walks back to the coatroom. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore. Not sure I’ll be able to focus on any positions this morning but the ones I’d like to have him in.”
I swallow a cutting reply. I have no right to be peeved over Anna’s appreciation for Trevor’s body. Wasn’t I just doing the same thing? And yet I want to strangle her with my towel even after she turns away to chat with someone else, the thespian hussy.
Something wide and hard and warm at my back makes me go completely still.
“Mornin’, Sof.” Trevor’s breath in my ear sprouts goose bumps all over my arms that have nothing to do with the slight chill Jalene maintains in her studio.
I turn to face him, ready to snap and hiss for this unconscionable invasion of my privacy, but every word dries up in my mouth at the sight of him. So this is what he’s been barely hiding under those perfectly tailored suits. The heavy slope of his shoulders strains the thin white T-shirt clinging to rungs of muscle in his abs. Arms and legs thick and cut up with muscle stretch from his sleeves and shorts. And if his big body wasn’t enough assault on my senses, his scent—something clean and unabashedly masculine—makes me wetter and weaker by the second.
“Cat got your tongue, Sof?”
Trevor’s words don’t even snap me out of my lusty inspection. Forget the cat. Trevor can have my tongue anywhere he wants it. Every reason I shouldn’t give this man a chance burns away under the heat of those dark, laughing eyes.
He’s too good for me, but I’m going to have him. At least once, and maybe only for a night, but I will have this big, beautiful creature.
And then I’ll walk away like I’ve always done before.
That certainty settles inside me. It slows the mad race of my heartbeat. It eases the ache at the apex of my thighs. It emboldens me.
“Bishop, so good of you to join us.” I step closer, becoming the aggressor, reaching up to run my fingers over the reddish brown pelt of his hair, lightly scraping my nails over his scalp. “You cut your hair. I like it.”
He draws a deep breath that brushes his wide chest against mine. My nipples predictably spring erect, tightening under the fitted halter top. His eyes drop to my breasts, slide over my hips, and caress the length of my legs before meeting my waiting gaze.
“Cat got your tongue, Bishop?” I ask, my voice husky.
He narrows his eyes at me and catches my hand, still touching the silkiness of his hair. He senses the shift in our dynamic but is trying to figure it out. Trying to figure me out.
Don’t worry, Mr. Bishop. I’ll clear it up for you soon enough.
“You’re not angry that I showed up in your class?” He releases my arm, and it drops to my side, a small frown furrowing those thick brows.
“Angry?” I feign surprise, touching the exposed skin of my chest where the halter dips, drawing his eyes back to my breasts. “Why would I be angry? I’ll warn you, though, Jalene’s tough. This class is not for the faint of heart.”
“Somehow I think I’ll be fine in your little ballet class.”
The road to humility is paved with cocky grins like the one he gives me as he looks from the slim barre at the mirror to the slim woman assuming her place to lead our class. A body like his doesn’t just happen, so I know he works hard at keeping fit. But barre requires something different; it will test muscles he probably doesn’t usually use in ways he’s never used them.
This should be fun.
I turn around. Between Jalene’s kick-ass barre routine and my ass in his face for the duration of the class, he’s in for an hour of torture.
“Good luck, Bishop.” I bend over to touch my toes, giving him an unobstructed rear view that has inspired poetry and prose from more than one melodramatic suitor over the years.
Did he just groan behind me? Already, and I’m just getting started.
And that’s not his last groan. Over the next hour, from the first position, through each grand plié, to the grand relevés responsible for all the killer calves in Jalene’s class, Trevor groans and grunts through a routine that, even after a year, still leaves me aching and sore. Jalene has no mercy on him, ruthlessly correcting his posture, adjusting his positions, and demanding his attention, all while I do my best to distract him with every stretch and lean of my body. Poor man must be exhausted, physically and mentally, but he brought this on himself.