Contingency Plan (Blackbridge Security 3)

Her sports bra isn’t thick enough to do much, and my mouth waters to trace the outline of her nipple pushing against the fabric. Her hair is in the typical bun, but her face is completely made up, notifying me that she isn’t going to be working out today in the home gym.

“I have an exercise class,” she says as she breezes past me without bothering to look me in the eye.

She waits by the rear passenger door of her car for me to open it up, and it’s easy to see she’s put me in a much different box than the one I was in last night. It’s probably for the best though. Despite practically having permission from my boss to kiss her, tainting a job with emotion never worked out well for me in the past.

The only words she gives to me include the address to her exercise class, but that doesn’t stop me from watching her in the rearview mirror more than I actually watch the road in front of me.

She waits when we arrive, and I know she’s trying to act like a diva, but I like opening the door for her, so I think it’s a win-win situation. I breathe deep when she slips past me again, planning to compare the scent of her skin now versus after she’s done exercising. It’s not the first time I’ve been around to witness the event, but at home she’s always in slouchy sweats and an oversized t-shirt, never second-skin spandex.

With her nose halfway tilted to the sky, Remington breezes into the building, another skyscraper that looks more like the hub for Fortune 500 companies than a gym, but lo-and-behold, the third floor houses a very swanky one.

“You can wait in the lobby if you like,” Remington says with more professionalism than she’s shown since the day I met her.

Ignoring her, I follow her into the room, realizing my mistake the second I walk in. If I thought pulling away from the taste of her lips was hard last night, it’s got nothing on what’s about to go down.

The room, surrounded by mirrors is lit with several strobe lights with soft, sultry music playing through hidden speakers. All of that is fine, but it’s the half dozen gleaming poles scattered throughout the room that have the potential to give me a fucking heart attack. I’m not an idiot. I know pole dancing is a very good way to get a full-body workout, but I just wish I had time to prepare for this.

Nothing, and I mean nothing prepares me for the sight of Remington crossing the room and kissing either side of some dude’s face. His hand rests familiarly on her hips and I could make diamonds out of coal with the tension in my muscles. I watch, angry with the world even though it makes no sense as they laugh and joke. Several other women enter, two of them eyeing me up and down before they pull away from each other.

My mouth literally hangs open when Remington steps to the side and tugs down her athletic leggings. More ass than was revealed in her bikini that first day is visible, her tan legs going on for what seems like miles. She looks fucking stunning. I wouldn’t tell her that out loud, but my dick doesn’t seem too concerned with any attention he might get. I groan, rubbing my face with both hands and stand to the side, arms clasped in front of course, in an attempt to conceal my problem.

Controlling my erections have never been a damn problem for me. I’ve always had the ability to remain stoic, keeping my thoughts, fantasies, and reactions to myself. It’s one of the good traits of an FBI agent, but all my skills, all the things that made me a great agent once upon a time mean absolutely nothing when I’m around this woman.

She’s driving me nuts. I told Wren as much yesterday, but it has much less to do with her running and everything to do with how spiked my adrenaline is when I catch her. I was thrilled last night when I noticed her gone, having Wren tap into cameras all over the city when the signals started bouncing off one another due to the close proximity of the buildings. Knowing exactly which bar she went into last night is also why he was witness to the kiss we shared. Clearly, there’s no honor among men who break the rules. He’s the fucking champ at it.

Her disrobing was bad but witnessing her stretch. God help me.

Her stomach muscles flex and roll as she bends, her ass pointed directly at me. I stand appreciating the view until I see the man she was talking to—by this point I realize he’s the instructor—watching the front part of her. I know what her perfect damn tits look like in that sports bra, but I haven’t been privileged to seeing her bend over. I swear if she falls out of that damn flimsy thing, I’m going to end up in jail for assault.