“And miss all the eye candy? I think not.”
He gave me a sidelong look. “Just remember who you came with.”
I reached out and rubbed my index finger across his chest in a pretend-creepy way. “My personal trainer. Who I pay very handsomely. He knows how to work all my muscle groups.”
“That’s right.” He clapped his hands. “Chop, chop. Ten minute warm-up on the stationery bike. Move it, move it.”
“Yes, sir!”
We got on the bikes, side by side, and pretended to race.
Next, we did some work with free weights, and he showed me how to do these different reps with five-pound weights in my hands, all while lying on a bench.
“Exercising while lying down isn’t so bad,” I said. “And who knew there were so many positions.”
“Five more, and keep your form. They’re worthless if you don’t have proper form.”
“Yes, sir.”
Oh, how I craved his approval. And for something as ridiculous as lifting a five-pound weight up and down, over and over. Every time he said, “Very nice,” it felt as good as one of his kisses.
Once I was set up with a simple rotation, he picked up the heavier weights and got to work himself. All around us, men were panting on treadmills and grunting as they lifted weights. They were being respectful toward me, but there was something about the amount of testosterone in the air that made me feel funny. Alert. Alive.
Keith was right about the workout snapping me out of the hangover. A little sweating, mopped up quickly with the much-appreciated complimentary towels, plus many refills of my water bottle, and I was feeling downright heroic. I even did some reps with the ten-pound weights.
To my chagrin, I tried to do a bench press, but Keith had to remove all the weights and have me lift the bar only. I was embarrassed at first, but then I realized that if anyone was looking my way, it was at my peaches, and not my puny muscles.
We switched, and I spotted Keith while he lifted an impressive amount of weight. I worried that I was the wrong choice for a spotting partner, but he assured me that even if he came close to failure, he could still lift a portion of the weight, and just two fingers’ worth of help from me was the right amount of help.
He was right, and when he finished the reps, with a little help from me at the end, I felt so proud of him. He’d been born blessed with great genes, but he’d taken his gifts and worked really hard to turn himself into the gorgeous, sweaty beast I was going to take home and shower with.
He stood up and leaned over to whisper in my ear, “Amazing what two fingers can do.”
I giggled, remembering his homecoming surprise from Thursday.
Just then, a guy doing squats near us let out an audible fart. The smell drifted over. I’m just telling you this detail to be completely honest. I don’t want you to think gyms are Paradise on Earth, with nothing but hot guys and sexy, sweaty muscles. There’s a dark side to gyms. A farty dark side. Also, I did accidentally see a few cracks I would rather not have seen. But, overall, the gym wasn’t the worst thing, and I contemplated making my next New Year’s resolution about going twice annually.
CHAPTER 20
We got our juice smoothies to go, and went straight back to Keith’s place. After a quick shower, we returned to the bedroom for a little Afternoon Delight.
Keith dropped his towel on the bed as he did a standing stretch.
“Towel on the bed.” I shook my head and made a tsk-tsk noise.
With a groan, he tossed his towel toward the hook on the back of his bedroom door. The towel missed and fell on the floor. He let himself drop backward onto his bed with another groan.
“You didn’t save any energy for me,” I said. “Naughty gym rat.”
“You go on top. Do all the stuff. It’ll be hot.”
“Roll over on your stomach,” I said.
“Kinky.” He rolled over, revealing that cute little ass of his that looked like two perfect dinner rolls.
I hung up my towel as well as his, then crawled onto the bed alongside him.
I started kneading his muscles, gingerly at first. Working the thick ropes on the tops of the shoulders, I asked, “What muscles are these?”
“Mine.” He chuckled. “Trapezius,” he added. “They go all the way from the base of my skull to my shoulders, and then quite a ways down my back.”
I kneaded my fingertips into his muscles, fascinated by the change in firmness that happened just with a bit of work. He seemed to be melting, softening under my hands.
“They’re beautiful muscles. I normally objectify men by staring at their abs, but these are nice. Also, I totally know they’re called trapezius muscles. I was just checking to see that you knew.”
He moaned in response.
I moved over to his upper arms on the outside. “Deltoids? Or are they Altoids? No, Altoids are the curiously strong mints.”
Keith’s body shook as he laughed.
“Don’t laugh at your masseuse. She’s doing the best she can.”
“You have good hands,” he said.
“Thank you for taking me to the gym today.” I paused. Wow, that was a string of words I never expected to hear come out of my mouth. “And thank you for not weighing me or talking about calories or trying to make me sweat on the treadmill for an hour.” I kept kneading his muscles. “Thank you for being patient.”
“I just try to put myself in your shoes,” he said.
I paused.
I just try to put myself in your shoes.
He’d said it as if this was the simplest concept in the world, and everybody did it.
My eyes welled up with tears. He was facing mostly down, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the massage.
I fought to keep going at the same pace, even as my vision blurred and I surreptitiously wiped my tears on my shoulder.
“This really is a good massage,” he said.
I kept working, kneading his back muscles. My own body was already feeling slightly tender in some areas, so I could only imagine how Keith was feeling, considering all the much-heavier weights he’d been lifting.
I zoned out during the massage, and Keith drifted off. He started talking in his sleep, and I thought for a minute he was talking to me.
“My order.”
“What?” I asked, surprised.
“Dijon mustard. And ham.”
I prompted him for more. “What’s that? Is that your pizza order, Mr. Raven?”
Sounding indignant, he said, “We weren’t cutting across your lawn.”
I crawled off the bed and stood for a minute watching him sleep. I’ve seen my mother do this with Kyle, and when I still lived at home, she’d sometimes call me over to join in watching him sleep. How did Keith’s mother feel about him leaving for Italy, and being so far away from her?