Who do you think.
Mr. Apollo himself. Lance Anders, with the body of a god and the face of an angel. An angel of lust that is.
I put on my robe over my teddy and head down the stairs. Michael has already left for work and against my better judgment I’m curious to see what Lance is up to.
He’s not on the first floor when I get downstairs, and that’s when I hear a thud.
He’s in the gym.
I know I shouldn’t go down there. The gym and pool are in the basement of the townhouse—it’s a New York thing for people who don’t have backyards—and Lance working out is guaranteed to get my hormones raging.
But maybe, that’ll be a good thing. Maybe I can use that to go for a run, or something.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I race up the stairs, wash my face, put on a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra and put my hair back in a ponytail.
I pause to put some color on my face before heading downstairs.
What? I’m just looking a bit presentable. If I’m going out for a run through Central Park, I might as well look the part too.
Besides, if Lance notices, maybe he’ll….
He’ll what? Take you in his arms? Take his new stepmom and wrap his arms around her? Fuck her? Please. I’m behaving like a silly girl.
Nevertheless, the butterflies in my stomach are in full force as I head to the lower level.
The basement at the townhouse doesn’t look much like any other basement—it’s well lit and looks like the hallway of a hotel. I hear music playing from the gym and I walk to it and open the door.
There he is. He’s on a bench, shirtless, lying on a towel. He’s got a pair of basketball shorts on and some sneakers, but that’s all the clothes he’s wearing. I watch as he lifts a barbell loaded with weights and benches it. I watch as his muscles strain, his pecs flex and his abs contract.
Those are 8-pack abs. I’ve never seen any before, but that’s the very model of muscle definition. He’s got a perfect V-cut going down his abs. The look of intense concentration on his face is amazing; he doesn’t even realize I’m standing there until he finishes his set and gets up for some water.
He gives a start as he sees me, standing there, staring at him.
“Jocelyn…” Lance says, as he looks at me. I can tell his eyes are travelling my body, just as mine are travelling his.
I’m shameless in how I devour his body. I look at his nipples and wonder what it would be like to run my tongue under them. I’m sure he’s looking at my tight fitting yoga pants but I can’t be sure he’s thinking what I want him to think.
I might just be an old lady to him. Someone past the age of consideration. He was caught fucking the President’s daughter, of all people. Lance must be used to 21 year olds—he’s probably got an age limit on the girls he sleeps with.
“Can I help you?” he asks me, and I realize I’ve been staring. Too long.
So long it’s starting to look improper.
I need to say something.
“I’m going for a run, just wanted to see what you were doing,” I manage.
“You’re running on the treadmill in here?” he asks me, nonchalantly, taking a step closer.
No, I can’t be anywhere near him. I need to leave now.
“I’ll be running in the Park, around the Reservoir,” I tell him, backing away. He takes another step and all of a sudden I know that if I stay I won’t be able to control myself.
I head as quickly as I can to the exit located on the other side of the gym that leads up to 88th Street.
“Jocelyn,” Lance says again, but I don’t stop, my legs pump me up the stairs and before I know it, I’m in fresh air. I start jogging at a slow pace west, toward the Park.
That was really stupid of me, the way I acted back there. Don’t worry, hun, you can say it.