aggression in case he has to battle other males for the same mate. But the last part, I think, is a form of self-flagellation. Like I’m working myself so hard as a form of punishment.
I can normally deadlift around 495 pounds. Today I somehow manage 545, but my back and legs scream as I wrestle the weight from the floor. Even after managing it, I decide to do squats because the idea of squatting after deadlifts sounds so intensely unpleasant. And I do the deep kind, too, where I sit in the hole for two seconds before rising. I’m covered in sweat in no time. Every rep is agony, and I must be waking guests as I practically shout to get it up.
I can barely walk to the shower. I honestly think I might throw up. It takes five minutes standing in the ice-cold spray for the feeling to pass. Even after, I’m still in pain, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I’ve got four massages in a row again, with only a half-hour break after the first two. Massaging is its own form of workout.
Usually the idea of lifting before work is to get a decent pump, so I look more muscular, per Booth’s conception of me as little more than man-candy. But today I’ve not done myself any favors. Lighter weights will do what Booth wants. Today I’ve merely made my day impossible.
And that’s what makes me think I’m punishing myself, more than anything else.
What the hell was last night about? I only meant to talk to her. I went into it with intentions somewhere between my own and Booth’s. On one hand, I need my job, and Mimi and the rest of my family are depending on me to keep it. But on the other hand, fuck Booth . I have an anatomy degree and an LMT certification, and could find another job in sports medicine. I don’t need to be one step above a gigolo for a guy whose head I routinely fantasize about twisting off like a bottle cap, no matter how much better this pays than any other gig I could possibly get.
So why did I do what I did? I wasn’t thinking. I sat with only the vaguest intentions and the rest spilled right out. Just like in Lucy’s room, when I was doing her massage. She’s just another rich bitch. Why do I feel so affected?
Leaving the food and note outside her door made sense.
Until the middle of my first massage when it started to feel like a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that. I should stay away. She’ll be embarrassed. She was drunk; I took advantage. That wasn’t the way to make her happy, and neither will what I had in mind when meeting her later.
As I’m finishing my second massage, I flip-flop. Lucy didn’t exactly run away. She enjoyed things as much as I did, even if she had shame on her face. I can assuage that, make her see that it’s okay to have fun. And Booth is right about one thing: Lucy White sure seems like someone in desperate need of a vacation. So what’s the harm?
In the middle of my third massage, I realize the harm: I’ve never had sex with a guest. That’s mixing business with pleasure, and kicking the hornet’s nest any more than I already have is an awful idea.
But in the break between my third and fourth massage — the last one I’ll do before noon — a purely animal feeling eclipses my logic. It comes out of nowhere as my eyes find the clock, see that it’s nearly 10:30, and know my time is drawing near. This last flip-flop isn’t about logic. It’s base. Carnal. I find myself thinking of Lucy’s juices on my finger. The look on her face when she came. The sensation of her lips on me. The way she did as I asked — not because I wanted it, but because she did.
And it’s just my luck that right as I’m thinking all of this, Colleen Blackwood enters my cabana, wrapped in a towel.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
M ARCO
C OLLEEN LOOKS DOWN AND SEES that I’ve pitched a tent, but says nothing. Instead she smiles coyly, drops the towel with the barest pretense of turning away, and slips beneath the sheets. I’m sure she’s trying to arouse
I can normally deadlift around 495 pounds. Today I somehow manage 545, but my back and legs scream as I wrestle the weight from the floor. Even after managing it, I decide to do squats because the idea of squatting after deadlifts sounds so intensely unpleasant. And I do the deep kind, too, where I sit in the hole for two seconds before rising. I’m covered in sweat in no time. Every rep is agony, and I must be waking guests as I practically shout to get it up.
I can barely walk to the shower. I honestly think I might throw up. It takes five minutes standing in the ice-cold spray for the feeling to pass. Even after, I’m still in pain, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I’ve got four massages in a row again, with only a half-hour break after the first two. Massaging is its own form of workout.
Usually the idea of lifting before work is to get a decent pump, so I look more muscular, per Booth’s conception of me as little more than man-candy. But today I’ve not done myself any favors. Lighter weights will do what Booth wants. Today I’ve merely made my day impossible.
And that’s what makes me think I’m punishing myself, more than anything else.
What the hell was last night about? I only meant to talk to her. I went into it with intentions somewhere between my own and Booth’s. On one hand, I need my job, and Mimi and the rest of my family are depending on me to keep it. But on the other hand, fuck Booth . I have an anatomy degree and an LMT certification, and could find another job in sports medicine. I don’t need to be one step above a gigolo for a guy whose head I routinely fantasize about twisting off like a bottle cap, no matter how much better this pays than any other gig I could possibly get.
So why did I do what I did? I wasn’t thinking. I sat with only the vaguest intentions and the rest spilled right out. Just like in Lucy’s room, when I was doing her massage. She’s just another rich bitch. Why do I feel so affected?
Leaving the food and note outside her door made sense.
Until the middle of my first massage when it started to feel like a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that. I should stay away. She’ll be embarrassed. She was drunk; I took advantage. That wasn’t the way to make her happy, and neither will what I had in mind when meeting her later.
As I’m finishing my second massage, I flip-flop. Lucy didn’t exactly run away. She enjoyed things as much as I did, even if she had shame on her face. I can assuage that, make her see that it’s okay to have fun. And Booth is right about one thing: Lucy White sure seems like someone in desperate need of a vacation. So what’s the harm?
In the middle of my third massage, I realize the harm: I’ve never had sex with a guest. That’s mixing business with pleasure, and kicking the hornet’s nest any more than I already have is an awful idea.
But in the break between my third and fourth massage — the last one I’ll do before noon — a purely animal feeling eclipses my logic. It comes out of nowhere as my eyes find the clock, see that it’s nearly 10:30, and know my time is drawing near. This last flip-flop isn’t about logic. It’s base. Carnal. I find myself thinking of Lucy’s juices on my finger. The look on her face when she came. The sensation of her lips on me. The way she did as I asked — not because I wanted it, but because she did.
And it’s just my luck that right as I’m thinking all of this, Colleen Blackwood enters my cabana, wrapped in a towel.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
M ARCO
C OLLEEN LOOKS DOWN AND SEES that I’ve pitched a tent, but says nothing. Instead she smiles coyly, drops the towel with the barest pretense of turning away, and slips beneath the sheets. I’m sure she’s trying to arouse
Similar Books
![Taming Heather [Cariboo Lunewulf 1]](https://fs.ageofbook.com/447568/thumbs/152x264/taming-heather-cariboo-lunewulf-1.jpg)
