Chapter 10
Ten
Gonna Make You Sweat
Spencer
Kill me now.
All I can do is stare as Ryan does a set of squats. Every time he dips down—with mouthwatering form, I might add—those damn tiny shorts tug down just enough and two perfect dimples appear right above his ass.
Five.
I was wrong. The universe didn’t bless Ryan Buterbaugh with three dimples. No. He has five.
Five dimples.
Dimples in general are my weakness. But lower back dimples? They’re my fucking kryptonite. And his might be the best I’ve ever seen. Just sitting prettily atop that perfect athlete bubble butt, begging for me to put my thumbs in them while I plunge…
I clench my fist, shaking the thought off, as I watch him finish the set, driving up through his heels with controlled power like the bar weighs nothing.
He moves like he’s built for this: muscles firing under sweat-slick skin, thighs flexing, calves tight.
Ryan racks the bar and turns, flashing me a megawatt smile.
Oh look, there’s the other three dimples.
“Your turn,” Ryan says through heavy breaths. He grabs his water bottle and takes a long swig. My eyes track the movement—his throat working as he swallows.
I’d like to shove my cock down that throat. Tug his hair back and make him look at me with those pretty green eyes.
I shake my head sharply at the intrusive thought.
No. I don’t mess with the straight ones.
Ryan points his bottle at me. “You ready? Need me to drop the weight?”
I sigh and step toward the rack. “No. Most of my strength is in my lower body.”
“I noticed.” His eyes drop briefly to my hips and thighs.
“I was guessing soccer,” he continues. “Rugby maybe. Gymnastics?”
I laugh as I step under the bar. “Team sports aren’t my thing. But yeah. I started gymnastics when I was six. Missed a couple years of training in high school, but picked it back up in college. Nothing serious though.”
I can see him in the mirror wall in front of me as his gaze meets mine. “It paid off,” he compliments, then his eyes drop right to my ass. “What was your skill?”
Despite myself, my chest puffs up a little. “Floor and vault.”
Ryan finishes another gulp of water and wipes his mouth. “So, are you like…really bendy?” he asks, pumping his eyebrows.
I stare at him in the mirror for a beat. Then I back out of the rack, turn, and step into his personal space. I grab the bottle out of his hand, take a slow sip, set it back in his palm, and lean in just slightly. “I’m not the one who would need to be bendy in this scenario.”
Red blooms up his neck until it reaches the tips of his ears. I straighten and clap my hands once. “Now, I’m going to do my set of squats,” I taunt. “Try to keep your eyes to yourself.”
I turn toward the rack.
Jesus, what are you doing, Stark?
But hey, I may have a rule about straight guys thinking they want to dip their toe in gay waters—which is what I’m beginning to suspect this is—but there’s no rule against putting on a show. It’s not every day a world-famous athlete flirts with damaged goods.
I grip the bar above my head and lift it free from the rack, settling it in place. I didn’t go with barely-there shorts like he did, but I did choose the tightest workout pants I own—and I know exactly how good my thighs look like in them. No harm in drawing attention.
I glance at the mirror in front of me, and Ryan is staring directly at said thighs. I smirk and dip into a squat. Slow and controlled, my eyes remain locked on his face in the mirror the entire way down and up.
Serves him right for teasing me with those damn shorts. Every time it was my set on the bench press earlier, he insisted on spotting me. Which would be fine—except it gave me a direct view straight up the opening of his shorts. All skin and muscle.
And the fucker is wearing a jockstrap—stuffed pouch just staring me in the face. Unbelievable. I finish my set and step forward to re-rack the bar. Ryan moves in behind me swiftly, ready to help.
Absolutely not.
I quickly slide the bar into the rack before he can get close enough to touch me. The hell if he’s rubbing against me. Ryan backs up again and I turn around. He offers me the water bottle, and I snag it and take a swig.
“I think that’s it for me,” I tell him as I hand the bottle back. Our fingers brush, and electricity pulses between them.
Ryan nods, takes another sip himself, then slowly licks his lips. My eyes follow the movement as my dick twitches.
Yeah, this won’t be happening again.
We exit the gym together, the cool night air hitting my overheated skin the moment the door swings closed. Downtown hums around us and Ryan falls into step beside me like we’ve done this a hundred times.
“Good workout, man,” he says, stretching one arm across his chest as we walk. “Thanks for coming with me. Feels good to get a good pump in, right?”
I scoff and glance over at him. “Fine,” I admit. “It was a good workout.” Ryan beams, aiming those goddamn dimples right at me. “But,” I continue, pointing a finger at him, “we didn’t discuss this legal advice you said you needed.”
Thirty seconds pass with no response from Ryan. I look over and he’s just grinning sheepishly. I throw my head back toward the sky and shout an exasperated, “Why?”
Ryan responds with the feigned innocence of a toddler up to no good. “Why what?”
And fuck if I can help laughing under my breath. “Why all this?” I gesture vaguely between us. “Why did you show up at my office? Why did you want to work out with me?”
We reach the entrance of my condo building and come to a stop in front of the glass doors.
Ryan rocks back on his heels. “Why not?” he says simply. “You’re part of our friend group. I just wanted to get to know you.”
He sounds sweet and nervous and I don’t know what to do with that. “So why pretend you needed legal advice?” I prod, narrowing my eyes at him.
Ryan blows out a breath and throws his hands up. “I don’t know, man,” he says. “You’re intimidating.”
I gape at him. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” he says immediately. “Have you met you?”
Another laugh escapes me. “That’s fair.”
“But that’s also what made me want to hang with you,” he continues. “No one’s ever talked to me like that.”
I tilt my head slightly. “What, like a person?”
“Exactly,” he says. “When you’re a famous athlete, everyone kisses your ass. I guess I just appreciate the real ones. And you—you’re a real one Spence.”
That takes me off guard. I hadn’t expected that level of raw vulnerability. Especially not from Ryan Buterbaugh. I think about it for a second before finally nodding.
“I can respect that,” I tell him softly. “Sorry I gave you a hard time.”
Ryan shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “No biggie, Spencester.”
“No.” I point at him. “Never call me that again.”
He bursts out laughing.
“But,” I add after a second, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket, “I’ll admit it was nice to get out of my head tonight. So, thanks, I guess.”
The big dope flashes me the cheesiest grin imaginable.
My brain tries to resist the onslaught of dimples by mocking him in my head: Oh, look at me, I’m Ryan Buterbaugh. I have bone structure carved out of marble, pretty eyes, and a perfect ass.
“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together once, “we both live downtown and the gym’s right around the corner. We could do two, maybe three days a week?”
Oh, this sweet summer child thinks this is happening again? That’s cute.
“I can’t overdo training,” he continues, “but we could mix it up with cardio. Ooh, there’s a ‘90s spin class—”
“Not happening,” I cut him off sharply, holding up a hand. He blinks. “We are not becoming gym buddies.” I reiterate.
Ryan just keeps smiling like an idiot. “Okay,” he says easily. “I’ll swing by Thursday. Just bring your gym bag to the office.”
I shake my head. “Not happening, Ryan.”
He starts walking backward down the sidewalk, pointing at me with both hands, still grinning like a golden retriever that just discovered tennis balls.
“See you Thursday, Spencester!” he shouts.
“That's not happening either!” I shout back.
The NFL’s top quarterback just laughs and turns the corner, disappearing down the block. By the time I push through the doors of my building, the quiet lobby feels like stepping into another world.
George looks up from the concierge desk as I walk in.
He greets me. “Evening, Mr. Stark.” I give him a small nod as I head toward the elevators.
The ride up is quiet, my reflection staring back at me in the brushed metal doors.
My hair is damp with sweat, shirt clinging slightly to my chest from the workout.
I exhale slowly as the elevator doors slide open and I step out on my floor.
Letting myself into my condo, Fucker sits right inside the doorway, tail curled around his paws, staring up at me. He lets out a single, unimpressed meow. I look down at him as I shut the door behind me. “It’s just me,” I say.
Another meow.
I sigh. “I know. You’re disappointed.” He flicks his tail as if to say, bring the hot blond jock back for me to play with. I kick off my shoes and walk past him toward the bedroom. “Don’t start,” I mutter over my shoulder when he follows me.
The bedroom is dim except for the lamp on my nightstand. I peel my shirt off then shove my gym pants down my legs. Sweaty clothes go straight into the hamper as I step into the bathroom and turn on the shower.
While it heats up, I glance at myself in the mirror. I turn sideways slightly, looking over my shoulder. I check my ass. My thighs. Then I shift my weight, studying the lines of muscle there. “I did get a good pump from that workout,” I murmur to absolutely no one.
It’s not like I’m out of shape. Between the incline hikes, my dumbbell set, and eating a protein-forward diet, I maintain a good build. Like I said, I’m genetically blessed, especially below the waist. But my focus has always been work.
Still…
I flex slightly again, watching the muscles shift under my skin. “It couldn’t hurt to step up the routine,” I mutter.
The shower is steaming now. I step under the hot water and tilt my head back as it hits my shoulders, the heat melting a little tension out of my muscles.
Then my brain betrays me. Ryan’s stupid shorts. Those five goddamn dimples. That smug grin.
I grit my teeth. “No,” I actually bark aloud, bracing one hand against the tile. “I don’t bend my rules.”
Rules exist for a reason. I don’t get involved with straight men who think experimenting is a fun little adventure. I don’t get tangled up with men who could derail the carefully constructed life I’ve built.
I don’t have the time or the patience for a pretty athlete in slutty little shorts with full, pouty lips.
Nope.
My eyes drop and my cock is standing at full attention. I stare down at it in disbelief. Fuck.
Not. Happening.
I will not be gym buddies with Ryan Buterbaugh.