Her forehead and cheeks burned.
If he was still wearing the shit-eating grin when she opened her eyes, she was going to have to sucker punch him, even though he was twice her size and she’d probably break her hand if she landed the shot. But when she opened her eyes there was no hint of the smile. Or the scowl. His expression was neutral, and yet…there was a trace of something in his eyes. Some mesmerizing intensity that told her he knew exactly what effect submitting to his demands and admitting her need had on her, and warned her he wasn’t unscathed, either.
His lips parted.
She held her breath.
“Okay, Trouble. Let’s get started.”
…
He might have told Quinn working out in her underwear was a consequence rather than a punishment, but it qualified as pure punishment for him. Watching her breasts bounce and her ass jiggle as she pounded out a three mile warm-up on the treadmill tortured his cock as effectively as if she’d been trying to make him hurt.
God help him if she ever actually tried. He’d have her over the console of that treadmill so fast, she’d never even manage a cry of surprise. He’d leave her clinging there, legs dangling, feet scrambling for toeholds along the motor cover while he dragged the panties aside and sank into her heat. Then she’d cry out—another wall-rattling I need you, as long as he was fantasizing—and take him in deeper as her grip on the console wavered and her body slid down onto his. He’d fold his hands over hers and fuck her back up to her original position, let her slide down, and repeat the whole thing until her arms shook from the strain. Until her spine arched, her glutes tightened, and she screamed I need you at the top of her lungs, squeezing his soul out of him through his cock while she bucked and trembled her way through yet another consequence.
Client. Actress. Smart-ass. Three strikes, McLean. You’re out. He turned away and adjusted himself as discretely as a guy could in a room where mirrors dominated the walls. A small, glass-fronted refrigerator tucked under a counter at the other end of the room caught his eye. He headed over and took out a bottle of water. She’d be desperate for hydration by the end of the warm-up. As he made his way back to her, however, he had to give credit where credit was due. She’d ranked running as one of her least favorite activities in the preferences questionnaire she’d completed prior to arrival. On top of that, champagne produced a gnarly hangover, and the energy from the refined sugars she’d consumed last night was long gone by now. But she hadn’t uttered a word of complaint. She gutted it out.
She also favored her left leg. Just a little, but she’d been doing it from the start. It was no better, or worse, now that she was—he drew up alongside the machine and checked the readout—2.87 miles into the warm-up. Still, the detail merited some follow-up, because she hadn’t divulged any injuries in her health questionnaires. He twisted the cap on the water bottle and placed it in the holder built into the treadmill’s console. She cast the water a longing look, but didn’t reach for the bottle.
Okay. They’d talk first. “Last night you mentioned you’d gotten derailed a couple months ago and had to take a break from your normal workouts.” He raised his voice to be heard over the hum of the machine. “Tell me about that.”
“Nothing to tell. I was just making conversation.”
He found her eyes in the mirror and stared her down. “Last night I mentioned a very important requirement of our deal. Do you remember?”
“Did you?” She frowned, but he thought she might be feigning the confusion.
“It had to do with honesty.”
She reached for the water now, and took a long swallow. Buying time. She’d rather show that little weakness of accepting something from him than reveal whatever had derailed her. The treadmill wasn’t cooperating, though. It beeped, signaling the end of the warm-up he’d programmed. Her eyes darted to the readout panel, and then up to him—face-to-face this time rather than via the mirror. “You told me not to lie to you again or…” She paused for breath. “…no deal.”
The pace of the running belt slowed to the point she could walk. The beauty of the treadmill was no matter how fast or slow she moved, she couldn’t outrun this conversation. He had her hemmed in. “Good to know it’s not all a blur. Here’s the thing, Trouble. When I ask you a question, I need an honest answer because it all factors into how I’m going to accomplish your goals, safely. If I can’t rely on you to be straight with me, then I can’t be certain what we’re doing here is safe for you. And I won’t work under those conditions. So, let’s try this again.” The treadmill stopped. He unclipped the shutoff key from the waist of her underwear and ordered his fingers not to linger on her smooth, damp skin. “Something derailed you a couple months ago?”
She held his gaze for another second, then sighed and slumped against the rail on the other side of the machine—as far from him as she could get without doing something drastic—and rubbed the back of her neck. “I hurt my knee. It’s not a big deal, but I had to take it easy for awhile.”
“Elaborate on ‘hurt.’”
Her eyes narrowed a little at his tone, but he didn’t really care. He asked clients to complete the health questionnaires for a reason.
“I sprained it, but it’s completely—”
“ACL?”
She shook her head. “MCL.”
“Grade?”
“Grade 3, but it’s completely healed. I swear.” She leaned forward now, hands wrapped around the rail between them, talking fast. “I got the MRI. I wore the brace. I kept it elevated, and completed weeks of PT. I have no pain, and full range of motion. My orthopedist cleared me to return to my regular routine. I didn’t lie on your precious questionnaire. I have no medical conditions that would prevent me from doing any type of physical exercise.”
Unfortunately, by her own account, that wasn’t what her orthopedist said. “According to your doc, you have no medical condition that would prevent you from returning to your regular routine. Did your regular routine include running between six and ten miles a day, kickboxing, power yoga, and weight training?”
“Six to ten miles of running a day? Are you serious?”
Not surprisingly, the mention of the non-preferred activity got a reaction out of her, but he was serious about all of it. “Few things melt fat faster. Your role requires you be lean and muscular. When it comes right down to it, you need your dancer’s body back, but fast. You don’t have months to spend regaining the strength and flexibility, so along with the cardio, I’ll layer in weight training to add definition and some fight training to get you moving like an ass kicker, which will make your director happy. Basically, Quinn, I designed these next six weeks as a high-intensity, keep-your-body guessing, tour-de-force, and now I’m concerned you can’t handle it.”
“I can handle anything. Dancing is like all that stuff rolled into one, and my knee is fine.” She wrapped one hand high around the vertical support bar of the functional trainer, balanced on her left foot, and wrapped the other hand around her right ankle. Then she proceeded to lift her right leg up. Sweet Jesus, all the way up…into a standing split. Graceful as a ballerina, she pointed her toes to the ceiling. With one brow cocked, she looked at him. “See?”
All he could see was her assuming the s