By: Victoria Ashley

“You don’t do personal training,” Mitch says with a lopsided grin. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take over?”

I stop walking and look him straight in the eyes. “No. She’s my first and only client. Don’t question my decisions.”

He takes a step back. “Sorry, boss. I didn’t mean any harm. Just trying to be friendly.”

I let out a grunt and walk away. Friendly my ass. You want to fuck her just like I do. The difference in him and I is that I am willing to pleasure her in ways that this young dick hasn’t even had a chance to learn. I fuck for her pleasure. That’s what drives me. This fucker is nineteen and has slept with half of his trainees, only being sure to get himself off I’m sure.

Setting my Harley in my sights, I secure my bag, before mounting her and pulling my helmet on. A nice, long ride is what I need right now before I find myself standing outside of her door, rock hard, and ready to hold her on my shoulders so she can mount my face.

The way her pussy looked in those tight little yoga pants didn’t get past me, and I could smell her body as she started to sweat. That beautiful place between her legs was wet all right, and I have a feeling that it wasn’t only due to her workout.

Monday . . . I’m going to have her taste all over me.

I STILL CAN’T GET OVER my workout session with Kyan on Saturday. His amber eyes watched me as if he wanted to taste me and I loved the way his sexy lips spoke to me. His voice is so strong and seductive. Doesn’t he realize what he does to a woman?

I haven’t seen or spoken to him since. My phone goes off and a text from an unknown number comes through; maybe that’s about to change. The words make it clear that Kyan has taken down my number from the front desk. You would think that in an upscale building like this they would be stricter on the privacy of their tenants.

Kyan: I’ll see you in 3 hours. Apartment 1020. Wear something comfortable or nothing at all. ;)

I stare at my phone for a second before responding. I said I was free to photograph today. How does he know I’m not busy for the next four or five hours? He’s demanding, and oddly I find it refreshing and sexy.

Me: Very funny. I’ll definitely be wearing something . . . and I may or may not be free at seven. You’ll know if I show up.

I get an immediate response as if he was already typing out his message before I even replied.

Kyan: I’ve got everything you need. Just bring your camera.

Not bothering to respond, I smile to myself as I set my phone down on the living room floor and continue to unpack the box I’m working on. He’s so certain that I’m showing up, so there is use in fighting it. Three hours will give me enough time to finish unpacking, eat, and take a quick shower.

Tori and I spent most of yesterday at the Miller Wedding, but came home late and got a lot of unpacking done. Luckily, we’re down to about four more boxes. Thank goodness!

“Hey woman!” I yell.

Something comes flying at me from the kitchen. “Do you really have to yell? I’m like ten feet away.”

I look beside me at the spatula now lying on the floor. I pick it up and toss it back in the kitchen. “I’m starving. What do you want to do for dinner tonight? We can go downstairs to the bar. The food smelt pretty good when I went there on Friday night.”

“Sounds good to me. I just want some really good chicken wings. I don’t really care where they’re from.”

I pull the last DVD from the box and shove it onto the shelf. “Mmm. That sounds really good right now.” I push the empty box aside and go to join Tori in the kitchen. “What’s left in here? If I don’t eat within the next hour I will cry. I’m that hungry.”

Reaching above her to place some plates in the cabinet, she tilts her head back and turns it to the left of her. “That box right there. It’s full of all the stupid pans. That’s the last box for the kitchen.”

“Good. Let’s just finish the kitchen, go eat, and then we’ll finish the other boxes before I take off for my shoot.”

Tori freezes from reaching into the box and spins on her heels to look at me. I may have forgotten to tell her that little detail. “What shoot?”

I shrug my shoulders at her while ripping the tape off the box of pans. “Kyan . . . the guy I met at the bar on Friday.”

“Yeah.” She pushes my shoulder. “Go on.”

Ignoring the fact that she’s standing directly over my shoulder like a damn creeper, I start putting the pans away. “He’s my personal trainer. A local author asked him to be on her book cover and he asked me to photograph him.”

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