Chapter 8
VAL
This. Fucking. Guy.
The three words repeat through my head over and over as I stalk Roman.
…Okay, that’s unnecessarily harsh. I’m not stalking the fucker. We’re hanging out, it’s just that we’re hanging out roughly twenty to thirty feet away from each other, and Roman doesn’t know we're hanging out.
That’s his problem, though.
I’m not entirely sure why I’ve been doing this off and on for the last few days. It started the day after that debacle of an “engagement” party, where Roman manhandled me in a way that got my blood roaring and my dick begging for some fun.
…Which he promptly blue-balled me on. Such an asshole.
After he stormed out of the library, I got my shit together, told my cock to sit down and be quiet, smoothed down my tux, and went to introduce myself to the blushing bride-to-be.
What can I say, there’s a devious little fucker inside me.
I wanted to feel a sense of smugness when I looked Dasha Lukashova in the eye and smiled politely during our conversation, knowing full well that I’d just felt her fiancé’s big cock twitching and throbbing against my own.
But whatever fucked-up sense of superiority I was hoping to exact from that exchange never materialized. Mainly because I actually liked talking to her.
It turns out, as much of a stuck-up, no-fun, closeted prick-tease Roman is, his fake fiancée is a peach.
She’s cool, intelligent, cultured, and—surprise—a huge fan of the ballet.
So my plans for covertly face-rubbing quickly morphed into me offering to give her a tour of the Mercury Theatre, where the Zakharova rehearses and performs.
And I started taking my pent-up wrath out on Roman instead, in the form of stalking him.
Or, you know, whatever we're calling it.
Non-consensual distanced hangouts.
That works.
By now, I’ve started to get a decent feel for his schedule, which, it will shock no one, considering his delicious muscles, involves a heavy dose of gym time.
I’ve followed him to Equilibrium, a very exclusive, ludicrously expensive gym in midtown four days in a row now.
And that’s put a damper on our “hangout” time, since they don’t let non-members past the lobby.
…But as of today, that’ll no longer be a problem.
I already have access to a fantastic gym at the Mercury. But what the hell—I decided to treat myself to a membership here. I mean, there’s even a steam room.
I linger in the lobby after Roman swipes his card and heads in, giving him enough time to change and stash his shit in the locker room before he hits the weights. Then I do the same.
The nice thing about Roman’s preferred time slot at the gym is that there’s basically no one here this early. The finance bro’s, I assume, come either on their lunch or after work, and the trophy wives are still sleeping. So the free weights area is wide open.
“Need a spotter?”
Roman about shits himself—and almost drops the insanely loaded barbell he’s benching—when I walk up and lean down right in his face.
“What the fuck?!” he sputters, his face reddening as he grunts and shoves his arms up, re-racking the barbell before moving to a sitting position on the bench. He glares at me. “The fuck are you doing here?!”
“Working out,” I shrug innocently. “What are you doing—”
“I’m a member,” he mutters, glaring at me.
“What a crazy coincidence. Me too!” I flash him a grin as I roll my shoulders and stretch my arms, letting the tank top ride up over my abs. “So, you need a spotter or what?”
Roman’s dark brows knit, his mouth thin, the picture of un-amusement.
“This is a very exclusive gym.”
I snort. “Well, look at you, you fucking classist. I didn’t peg you for such a bougie bitch.”
His face darkens. “Don’t call me that.”
“Bougie?”
“Bitch.”
I shrug. “Stop acting like one, then.”
Roman stands abruptly, his fists clenched. “If you’re looking to get hit in the mouth, why don't you just say so.”
I grin at him. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, baby.”
He shakes his head slowly, scowling. “Are you fucking insane? Like, legit question: are you?”
“Would it be super corny if I said you make me insane?”
He rolls his eyes. “No. Just obnoxious, and a waste of your time.”
Ahh, so we’re still barking up that tree.
“Whatever game you’re playing,” Roman mutters as he sits down again on the bench, lies back, and positions himself under the barbell, “I want out of it. Now fuck off before I call Security.”
I sigh. “I’m a member, asshole.”
He ignores me, positioning his hands on the bar and lifting it from the rack. He lowers it to his chest with a grunt, and I immediately move into a spotter position, standing near his head, my hands hovering just under the bar in case he needs it.
“I don’t need your fucking help,” he grunts as he starts to bench the bar up and down.
“Maybe I just like the view. You lying between my legs, looking up at me like that…”
Roman turns beet red, his eyes widening a little before they pull to murderous slits. “Seriously, get the fuck away from me.”
“Why?”
Roman grits his teeth, his muscles flexing and bulging in a way that does things to me as he shoves the bar up from his chest. “Because you’re…”
He trails off, and I chuckle.
“Oh c’mon, where’s that homophobia? Let it out, buddy.”
Roman grunts again as he lifts the bar from his chest. “I wasn’t going to say gay, idiot.”
“Good. That’s not my label of choice.”
Roman grunts extra loud, making my dick twitch as he shoves the bar all the way up and re-racks it. He sits up, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his broad chest heaving as he swivels to look at me.
“Why do you insist on intruding into my life?”
“Because it’s just so much fun?”
His too-perfect mouth twists. “I’m not into men. Period. I’m not sure how much clearer I have to be. I’m—”
“Do not say straight, please,” I groan. “I honestly can’t hear it again and not laugh. Or throw up. Or both.”
Roman’s stubbled jaw tightens. “Look. Whatever this fucking banter-y bullshit of yours is, I’m not interested. Full fucking stop. I’m marrying a woman, in case you missed it.”
“Ahhh, yes,” I sigh. “The beard. How terribly cliché—”
“Fuck. Off.”
Roman turns away from me, lies back on the bench, and slides under the bar again. He un-racks it and lowers it to his chest, grunting with the effort. Just as he starts to lift, I put my hands on top of the bar and push down—not hard, just enough to make it impossible for him to fight it.
His eyes go wide. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
“I want some honesty, Roman.”
“Val, get the fuck off!”
“If you’re not into guys…” I sigh. “Exactly what got your cock so fucking hard the other day.”
He grunts, gritting his teeth as he tries to shove up against both me and gravity. “Fuck. Off.”
“Throbbing, even…”
“I swear to fucking God—”
“Leaking precum all over your underwear…”
“GET OFF!” he roars.
“Mm, love it when you get bossy.”
With a roar, Roman takes matters into his own hands.
He doesn’t have weight locks on the bar, so he rolls to the side, lowering one end of it.
Instantly, the plates on that side fall off and hit the floor with a sharp metallic clang.
The bar then immediately tips to the other side, and the other plates do the same thing.
Okay, well played.
Roman now shoves the empty bar up easily, sliding out from underneath it and lurching to his feet.
“The fuck is your fucking problem?!” he roars, slamming into me and shoving me back with his palms.
“Everything all right, gentlemen?”
I blink, and we both turn to see some douche-y fucker who looks like a trainer standing there, sporting an Equilibrium t-shirt and employee badge.
I smile at him. “No problem here at all.”
“Actually, there is,” Roman growls. “He”—he jabs his thumb at me—“isn’t a member.”
The trainer turns to me. I grin and pull my shiny new ID card out of my gym shorts pocket.
“Just joined.”
The guy frowns and pulls out his phone, holding the camera to the QR code on the front of my card. The phone dings and a little green checkmark blinks on the screen before he smiles warmly at me. “Ah! Well, welcome to Equilibrium, Mr. Bancroft!”
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Roman mutters under his breath. He turns to the trainer. “Nolan, thank you, but I’d like some space, and Mr. Bancroft here is making that impossible.”
“Nolan” turns to me with an apologetic smile. “So sorry, Mr. Bancroft, but it would appear Mr. Nikitin would like a bit more time on the bench press?”
Or to lie to himself.
“Yeah, I think I’m fucking done here anyway,” I mutter, turning away. “Enjoy the bench, dickhead. See if you can turn that denial into fuel.”
Anger clouds my face as I storm into the locker room.
Fucking asshole.
I know I can be a little much…okay, a lot much. But for fuck’s sake.
I know—and Roman knows—how he’s responded every time we’ve crashed together. Those little fucking whimpers, and the not little, at all, erection that rises to say hello every time we’re in the same room together.
Coming to terms with your sexuality is complicated. I get that. But Jesus Christ. We’re well into the twenty-first century. This isn’t the goddamn forties, and that motherfucker is obviously into men.
Obviously into me, to be exact. Not to toot my own horn.
And this constant…not just denial, but the way he shoves that denial in my face, as if I’m somehow imagining his huge fucking erection and subby little whimpers when I touch him…is getting insulting.
I exhale the fury from my lungs as I drop my forehead to the lockers.
This guy is making a mess of me, and I don’t understand why. I also don’t understand why I don’t just walk away from this train wreck of a closet case. Whether he figures his shit out or not, it’s none of my fucking business. It shouldn’t be taking up so much space in my brain and my life.
He’s…wreckage.
And I have no time for that.
I strip off my shorts and tank top and wrap a towel around my hips before I storm over to the steam room. This membership cost a small fortune, and if I didn’t get a chance to actually work out, you can be damn sure I’ll at least enjoy the amenities while I’m here.
The steam room is hot as fuck when I step in. I groan, already feeling the tension releasing from my muscles as I roll my neck, turn the heat up a bit, and settle onto the wooden bench along the far wall with a deep sigh.
…Which is exactly when the door slams open, and Roman comes barging in like a Miley Cyrus‘s “Wrecking Ball”.
He freezes in the doorway, and I can’t hold back my smirk when his gaze drops to my muscled, tattooed chest, and then to my grooved, inked abs.
His throat bobs as he swallows, just…staring at my bare torso as his mouth drops open just a little.
I arch a brow. “Is…this what I hope it is?”
He blinks, the stunned gaze disappearing as he quickly yanks his eyes up to mine. His face darkens as he scowls deeply. “You need to Fuck. OFF.”
I scowl right back. “Hey, asshole, I already did. You got your precious bench press time. I was comfortably relaxing in here when you—”
My mouth snaps shut when Roman surges across the steam room, getting right in my space. I roll my neck as he comes to a stop inches away.
“The other night wasn’t what you think,” he hisses. “I am not what you think. So get the fuck away from me!” His finger jabs my bare chest, hard. “And stay there!”
He turns abruptly and starts for the door.
“Stop being so fucking bossy and grouchy and moody, then,” I snap.
Roman he whirls back on me. “Excuse me?”
“Stop it,” I mutter again. “It’s fucking hot.”
His eyes narrow. His damp, white t-shirt clings to his body like a second skin, showing every fucking muscle, groove, and tattoo.
He needs to just shut his mouth.
Shut his mouth and leave.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t take it anymore. And if this asshole says one more goddamn word, I swear, I’m going to—
“Fuck—”
Snap.
Roman gasps as I grab him by the neck of his t-shirt, spin him around and slam him against the wooden, slatted wall of the steam room. If I wasn’t already at my breaking point—which I am—that goddamn whimper of his coming out of his throat would finish me off.
“Actually,” I hiss, slamming my body against his, the sweat-slicked muscles of his chest flexing against mine through his t-shirt. I can feel his pulse slamming wildly, hear his breath catching as the masculine, fucking delicious scent of him invades my senses. “It’s more like fuck you.”
I press even harder against him, feeling the ragged gasping of his breath and his heart galloping out of control.
…And the unmistakable, throbbing, twitching, needy fucking pulse of his fat cock swelling against mine.
“And when I am fucking you,” I snarl as I lower my mouth to his ear. “I’m going to make you come in ways Dasha never will.”
Roman whimpers—fucking whimpers—and whatever brakes were left on this runaway train turn molten as we go flying off the track.
“You’re mine, wreckage.”
“I—”
“So just shut the FUCK up.”
My mouth slams to his, crushing his perfect lips in a fierce, brutal, shattering kiss.
…And there’s no going back now.