Chapter 4 – Seth #3
That’s… surprising. It's not most people's first choice when asked what’s your favorite cake, but okay. Maybe we have that in common. Maybe we have other things in common, too.
"It’s my favorite too," I say.
Her lips curl into a smile. "I'll challenge you for the rest of it."
I blink. "What?"
"A competition." She gestures between us. "We compete for the cake."
I don't want to compete for a half-eaten slice. Okay—that's a lie. I absolutely want the rest of that cake, and I want to stand here staring at this woman for a little longer while she finishes it but I also really, really want the cake.
I cross my arms over my chest, giving her a slow once-over.
Is she someone's girlfriend? A hockey wife?
I don't recognize her, but I haven't had the bandwidth to learn all the new faces around the Mayhem yet. She's pretty though, strong, tanned legs, exposed arms with the kind of muscle tone that says she actually uses a weight room, not just poses near one. Her ring finger’s bare and there’s a confidence to her that makes me think she’s either dating one of my teammates or a part of the staff.
After two glasses of whiskey and the rare luxury of a night without Sawyer waiting on me, I'm just loose enough to be curious about where this goes.
"What did you have in mind?"
Her lips press together like she's deciding how much to reveal. Then her grin turns mischievous. "This restaurant is connected to a hotel. They have a gym. Come on, let's check it out."
And just like that she grabs my hand—cake plate in the other—and takes off through the restaurant, pulling me along behind her. I follow, a little stunned, a little amused, a lot intrigued and slightly horny as I watch her tight ass in that black dress.
She takes a right, then a sharp left, heels clicking against the marble corridor as we weave through the hotel's quieter hallways.
There's a bounce in her step and something in her expression like she knows exactly where she's going and already likes what's waiting there.
Then she pushes through a door into a small but well-equipped gym.
It smells the way hotel gyms connected to pools always do, with too much chlorine, a little sweat, the faint hum of recycled air.
I glance around. "What are we doing in here?"
She sets the half-eaten cake on an empty bench. The strawberry glaze drips down one side as if it’s taunting me. It wouldn’t be difficult to get to the cake and shove the whole thing into my mouth before she can stop me.
"A battle," she says.
"A battle?"
"Okay, that was dramatic." She taps a finger to her lips. "A competition."
I wait.
"How about this—" she straightens, eyes lighting up. "You bench press me for ten reps, and I'll hip thrust you for ten reps. Whoever completes their challenge fastest wins the rest of the cake."
I stare at her. "You want me to bench press you?"
She grins like this is the best idea she's ever had.
"Yeah. Look, I didn't think this through very well.
I figured a hotel this upscale would have heavier weights.
Now I see that they don't. And by the size of you, I'm guessing you could bench press every weight in here combined.
So, I needed to make it interesting." She gestures at herself.
"Bench press me, and I'll hip thrust you. "
A short laugh escapes me because what the actual hell is this conversation?
"I weigh well over two hundred pounds."
Her grin widens. She kicks off her heels without missing a beat and I realize she’s much shorter now. "I can tell. But don’t underestimate how strong my glutes are."
I try to steal another look at said glutes, her round, very distracting ass, but she's already smiling at me, one eyebrow raised, shifting her weight so I lose the angle entirely.
She really thinks she can hip thrust me? This will be easy.
I bark out a laugh and it’s the kind I haven't heard from myself in longer than I'd like to admit.
I tilt my head back toward the ceiling, because is this how I expected to spend my first team dinner with the Manhattan Mayhem?
Absolutely not. But here I am, in a hotel gym, slightly buzzed, being challenged by a woman who stole the last slice of my favorite cake.
And oddly, I'm enjoying this much more than making small talk with the trainers and my new teammates.
I roll my shoulders and move toward the bench, stretching as I go, feeling the pull across my chest. The top button of my shirt’s already straining, so I undo a few more, letting my pecs and biceps breathe.
A strip of dark blond chest hair comes into view, and her eyes drop there instantly, hungrier than she looked eating that cake, which is saying something.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a confidence boost. My self-assurance has been in the ditch for the past year, and it’s been a while since I’ve noticed a woman noticing me.
"Alright," I say, settling back onto the bench. I look up at her and smile. "Come here, cross your arms and legs, and let me bench you. And then I'm taking my cake."