“Right here, right now?” I set the weight on the floor and grabbed my water, clandestinely adjusting my junk as I sat up, noting that we had this section of the gym to ourselves.
Johnny licked his lips and nodded. “Yep.”
“Let’s not get arrested. Come here and kiss me instead.”
“Now?”
“Now,” I said firmly.
His eyes took on a molten sex-hazed expression I knew well. He craved this kind of power exchange. He liked his freedom, but every once in a while he liked to be reined in with strict instructions. He wanted consequences too. He wanted to be held accountable…on his terms, of course. But that was in the bedroom. I expected him to give me a sharp look or to tell me to fuck off. To my surprise, he obeyed.
Johnny licked the corner of my mouth, then sealed his lips over mine and stroked my cock through my shorts. I broke the kiss and held his chin firmly.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He smiled, biting my shoulder, and snickering like a loon when I swatted him away. “Sorry. I got carried away. Hey, you’re right. I shouldn’t worry about the kid and the ex. I’ll stay in my lane and do musical things.”
“I didn’t say that. I just don’t want you to worry about Fiona.”
“Okay.” He regarded me thoughtfully before sweeping his hand toward the weights. “This place reminds me of a torture chamber. I understand it’s popular with the locals, but I don’t get it. What’s that thing over there?”
I swiveled to see where he was pointing. “A squat machine. C’mere. You can try it out.”
“No, thanks. I don’t want to muss my hair.”
I mussed it for him and led him by the elbow to the equipment. “Stand here. No, back up a step, so it’s evenly leveled on both shoulders. I’ll adjust the weight, and then you get to work.”
“Doing what?”
“Squats.” I bent my knees and straightened them and motioned for him to copy me.
“Not a chance. I’m dressed in my best emo ensemble. I can’t ruin this look. But since you’re ready to show off a bit, let me look up your shorts and check out that package while you work.” He lay flat with his Doc Martens parked on either side of the bench. “I’m waiting. Inspire me.”
I huffed derisively but decided to play along.
“All right. Here we go.” I flexed my fingers and wiggled my wrists. Then I positioned my shoulders evenly, bending my knees before lifting and squatting.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he whispered.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what? Oh, you’re right. Looks like we have a gawker. It’s okay. He probably thinks we’re in one of those daddy-son relationships.”
I furrowed my brow. “Cool it. This is a lot of weight.”
He snickered. “I’m so impressed…Daddy.”
“Johnny…”
“What?” he asked, blinking innocently. “Carry on. Just so we’re clear…I’d totally be down to call you Daddy in bed, but I will never in a million years say it aloud in public. It’s not me. Not that I have a problem with other people doing it. When I worked at Aromatique, there was this couple who came in on the weekends. The older man was probably in his fifties, and the younger one was maybe twenty-two. At first I didn’t know they were a couple. They just didn’t go together in my mind, and they weren’t obviously together either. They didn’t hold hands or touch each other…until…”
“Until what?” I prodded, finishing my set with a big exhale.
“The younger guy slipped his hand in his partner’s and asked Daddy if he could have a croissant.” Johnny sat up quickly, opened his mouth in a perfect O, and widened his kohl-streaked eyes. “Daddy. He literally called him ‘Daddy.’ ”
I brushed my palms on my shorts. “Why is that a big deal?”
“Have you ever done that? Or had a partner call you ‘Daddy’…not in bed. Like I said, anything goes in between the sheets, but…well, have you?”
“I didn’t call my own father ‘Daddy.’ It’s not sexy to me.” I cocked my head. “Is it to you?”
“Oh, hell yes. But I didn’t have a father, so maybe I have daddy issues.”
His jocular tone and sultry gaze were meant to pull me off my game. It was working. My dick was on its way to half-mast and yeah, we had an audience. Two thirtysomething buff dudes stood near the row of weights…out of earshot, but close enough to check us out. And vice versa. I was not about to engage in kink-talk. I’d have a flagpole in my shorts in seconds flat, so I switched gears.
“You never met your father?”
“No. To be honest, I don’t think my mom remembered meeting him. Seriously. I think I’m what’s commonly referred to as ‘trash.’ ” His self-deprecating snort was supposed to be dismissive, but I didn’t let it go.
“That’s not funny or true. Don’t say that again,” I said sharply.