Chapter 25
TIERNEY
The elevator doors slide open onto the gym floor, and Bronx steps out first, checks the place is empty, then rolls his shoulders.
A few weeks ago, I would’ve avoided this togetherness completely.
This morning we woke at the same time, moved around the bathroom without getting in each other’s way, and rode down twenty floors in a silence that wasn’t hostile.
Progress, apparently.
The gym is peaceful at this hour, with the city waking up beyond the tinted windows. I head toward the free weights while Bronx veers off toward the heavy bags.
We don’t train together, but we’ve fallen into this routine where we show up and pretend the other isn’t there.
Except I’m hyperaware he’s in the same room.
I know exactly where he is without looking.
Every damn morning.
I start with a few warm-up sets, stretching out the stiffness in my shoulders, then move to the rack. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Bronx wrap his hands before he works the bag.
His movements are controlled and economical; each strike lethal. The impact of his fists against the leather echoes through the room in a steady rhythm.
I tell myself I’m studying his technique when actually I’m gawking.
A few minutes later I move over to the bench and start loading plates onto the bar.
When I lie back and settle my grip, I notice the bag has gone quiet.
A few seconds later, Bronx appears above me, stepping behind the bench.
“I’ll spot,” he says.
I lift my head just enough to glare at him. “I don’t need one.”
He folds his arms across his chest and shrugs. “Well, I’m here now. No point moving.”
I snort under my breath and start my set.
The weight lifts smoothly on the first rep. Bronx doesn’t touch the bar, but I can feel the focus of his gaze on every movement.
“Not bad for a princess,” he says, and I can hear the taunt in his tone.
“I could bench you,” I shoot back, pushing the bar up again.
“You’d struggle to drag me across the floor.”
“I’ve dragged plenty of dead bodies.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest.
The bar lowers toward my sternum again, and I push it up harder this time, finishing the set with a final controlled rep before guiding it into the clips.
Bronx’s hands close around the bar just long enough to steady it as it settles into place.
His fingers brush my wrist. A small, accidental contact that sends a quick flare of heat through me.
I sit up and swipe the back of my hand across my forehead.
Bronx is standing between my knees now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Sweat darkens the collar of his T-shirt, and his eyes pin me in place.
My pulse trips.
“You’re slowing down,” he says.
“That was just a warm-up.” I roll my eyes and grab my water bottle. “If you’d lifted anything impressive, I would’ve noticed.”
His gaze drags over my face before he smirks.
“Wow, princess,” he murmurs. “Are you flirting?”
After a long drink, I get up. “I didn’t think wives needed to flirt once the ring settled on their finger.”
He steps back from the bench and gestures toward the pull-up bar.
“Come on, then,” he says. “Let’s see if that attitude holds up when you’re hanging.”
I grab my towel and follow him across the mat, refusing to let him see the faint smile tugging at my mouth.
Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line the entire wall behind me, throwing back every angle of us—his broad shoulders, my pink cheeks, the way my sports bra pushes up my cleavage and his T-shirt hangs loose.
Bronx jumps first, gripping the bar with an easy stretch of his arms and pulling himself up in one smooth motion before dropping back down again.
The repetitive movement is effortless; the muscles in his back tightening under the thin fabric of his shirt.
Show-off.
I plant my hands on the bar and haul myself up beside him.
“Try to keep up,” I mutter.
“Princess, I’ve been keeping up with you since the day we met.”
I pull myself up once, twice, the burn already starting in my shoulders. Bronx matches my rhythm; the two of us rising and lowering in unison.
Three reps.
Four.
Five.
“Struggling already?” he says between breaths.
“Not even close.”
He glances sideways at me, a slow grin spreading across his face as we drop back down again.
“Your form’s slipping.”
“My form is perfect.”
“Your legs are swinging.”
“That’s momentum.”
“That’s cheating.”
I drop from the bar and shove his shoulder as he lands beside me.
“You’re just bitter because I’m stronger than you,” I say.
Bronx actually laughs at that. Not the calculating smile he gives when he’s on a call, or the smug grin he throws at me when he wins an argument. This is different. Careless. Hotter.
Dangerous in a whole new way.
For a second, I just stare at him. His head tips back a little, his eyes creasing at the corners, and two deep dimples appear in his cheeks.
I’ve never seen this man look… so relaxed.
Jesus fuck.
He’s gorgeous when he laughs.
The thought turns my blood red-hot so suddenly that I have to look away before he can see the flush creep up my neck.
“Something wrong, princess?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at him like an idiot. So I grab a ball from the rack and toss it at him. “You look ridiculous.”
He catches it. “Ridiculous?”
“Those dimples,” I say, nodding toward his face. “They ruin the whole terrifying mafia enforcer image.”
He arches a brow. “Do they?”
“Completely.”
He sets the ball down and steps closer, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
“That’s disappointing,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because the terrifying mafia enforcer image works very well for me.”
“Sure it does.”
I bend to grab another weight, and he nudges it away with his foot before I can lift it.
“Hey.”
“You’re done with the weights now,” he says.
“Says who?”
“Says the man who just watched your arms shaking.”
“They were not shaking.”
He leans down, bringing his face closer to mine.
“Princess,” he murmurs, “there are other ways to work out.”
I shove his chest. “You’re such a horny bastard.”
“And yet you love working out with me.” He raises a brow.
“At home, I’d work out at this time most mornings,” I tell him. “Why should I change my training hours?”
His mouth curves again, slower this time. “You rode the elevator down with me.”
“That’s because the other one was occupied.”
“You brushed your teeth next to me,” he continues.
I roll my eyes. “You were hogging the sink.”
Bronx folds his arms. “And you watched me hit the bag for at least five consecutive minutes.”
“You were grunting like a pig,” I say, laughing. “I had to check you were okay.”
“Did I just hear that right?”
My brows knit together. “What?”
“You were concerned about my well-being?”
“You’ve twisted my words.”
“No, princess,” he chuckles. “I just called you out. My little hellcat has a heart.”
When I laugh, his smirk fades as his gaze drops to my mouth, softer now. “You laugh more these days.”
I frown. “And?”
“You used to hate me.”
For a second, neither of us moves. I cross my arms, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into my chest.
“I used to hate the smell of manure in my da’s stash house,” I say. “But I got used to it. Same thing.”
Bronx steps closer, killing the space between us. He reaches out and hooks two fingers under my bra strap, tugging just enough to make my breath hitch.
“Got used to me, huh?” His voice is low, gravel-rough. “Funny. I still make your pulse jump like it’s the first time.”
I open my mouth to snap something clever back, but he’s already ushering me forward until my breasts meet the cool glass.
The mirror fogs from my warm breath, and his chest is furnace-hot behind me. He plants one hand beside my head, caging me without touching.
“Have you gotten used to—” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear, “—me coming inside you?”
My thighs clench when his free hand slides lower, his palm skating over my stomach and cupping me through my leggings. I gasp, hips jerking forward into his grip.
He groans against my throat and squeezes.
“Look,” he orders, gripping my chin so our gazes meet in the mirror. “Watch what I do to you.”
The reflection shows how trapped I am.
His massive frame swallows mine from behind, and his biceps flex when he grinds his palm harder.
He yanks my leggings down just far enough for easy access, then he steps back and shoves his shorts to his ankles. He fists his thick cock and strokes it up and down as I watch him in the mirror, my pulse thrumming in my throat.
He moves up behind me, bends me forward so my hands brace on the mirror.
“Eyes on the mirror, princess,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking dare look away.”
Then he parts my thighs, finds my entrance and pushes in, inch by fucking inch.
Our gazes lock when he’s buried deep, then his hand closes around my throat from behind and he kisses my temple.
“I’m a lucky bastard getting to fuck you, princess.”
And before I can whimper, he fucks me hard and fast, each thrust rocking me forward. The hand on my neck moves to my hair and he yanks the braid so my head falls back and all I can see are my breasts bouncing under the bra, his jaw clenched and dark hair draping his forehead in disarray.
“You feel that?” he rasps. “How much you crave your husband’s cock. Say it.”
“I—fuck—your—” The word breaks on a moan as he angles deeper, hitting that spot that makes white sparks burst behind my eyes.
He reaches around, fingers finding my clit, rubbing fast circles while he pounds into me. My legs shake. My hands slide down the glass, and my body jolts with each thrust.
I come screaming his name.
“That’s it…my beautiful little hellcat, coming so hard on my cock.”
My knees give out, but he catches me, arm banding around my waist, holding me upright while he chases his own release.
Two more punishing thrusts and he stills, groaning long and low against my neck as he spills inside me, hot and thick.
“Fuck…” he hisses. “Feel how hard you make me come. You own this.”
For a heartbeat we just pant against the mirror, fogging the glass, his forehead pressed to my shoulder.
Then he pulls out, tugs my leggings back up, then fixes himself away in his shorts.
Before I can even find my balance, he scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, and carries me toward the showers.
“You’re shaking,” he says, and I am. “That’s because you gave yourself to me. I’ve got you.”
I close my eyes, and that’s when it hits me.
I’m not flinching or telling him to put me down. I’m just… happy in his arms.
My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the workout or the sex. I’ve stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.
With Bronx.
When our eyes meet, his expression is unreadable. He sets me down by the shower cubicle and brushes a strand off my cheek with his thumb.
“I think we moved past the whole hate thing,” he says.
I swallow. My heart’s hammering louder than it did when he was inside me.
“Guess so,” I whisper.
He nods once, as if that’s all he needed to hear.
Then he undresses and turns on the hot water, expecting me to strip off and join him.
And the fact that I do sends a ripple of panic through me.
I’m not just used to him.
I’m falling. Hard.
And I don’t think I want to stop.