She’d have argued, for form, but a third set was beyond her. “I just want to do one set of bench presses. One set. I’m a little sore, but it’s a good sore. You know what I mean.”
He walked to the bench. “One set.”
She replaced the free weights, swiped her face with a towel, then crossed over to lie down. “I won’t say I don’t need a spotter, because I’m not an idiot.”
He set the weights, nodded. “I’ve got you.”
Something tapped at her memory at his words, stirred something, then slipped away. Riley focused, fixed her grip. “Okay, I felt that,” she muttered as she pressed one. “One set of three. That’s all I’ve got.”
And the third rep was shaky, but gave her a lift of satisfaction.
“Okay. Okay, that’s it. That’s good enough.” It wasn’t until she sat up she noticed the weights. “You cut it down to ninety.”
“I’m impressed you could manage that. Day after tomorrow you can try for a hundred. Stretch it out.”
She decided ninety wasn’t mortifying given the circumstances. And besides, she felt good, accomplished, healthily fatigued rather than exhausted.
“I’m bouncing.”
“According to Bran’s grandmother, the wolf accelerates your recovery time.”
“Probably. Like I said, I’ve never been down like that before.”
She stretched, and so did he. When he did, she noted, everything rippled and bulged and sleeked out in exactly the right way.
She had to give it to him, the man was shredded.
What if he did have a kind of a little thing going for her? She had her own lusty—perfectly normal—thoughts in his direction.
They’d even managed a gym session without busting each other’s balls. It followed, logically, another form of healthy exercise—mutual—might just cap it all off.
“We could have sex.”
He had his left arm across his chest, cradled in the crook of his right for the stretch. And moved only his head in her direction. “What?”
“It’s not like it hasn’t occurred to you.” She went for another bottle of water, then studied him as she would a potential bootie buddy.
Sweaty, as she was, the mass of dark hair curling a little from the damp. Green eyes watched her suspiciously out of a face with hard planes and angles.
And the body? Well, Jesus, what woman wouldn’t want to play with that?
“I’m single, you’re single. I’m here, you’re here.” As she spoke, she wagged a finger toward him, toward herself. “We’ve already had a lip-lock that wasn’t half bad.”
“Half bad.”
“I’m good at it. I’m just saying.” She swigged water. “Or so I’m told. I’m betting you’re pretty good at it, too. Straight sex, Doyle, which I haven’t had for eight months and five days.”
“That’s very specific.”
“I was on a project in Brittany, ran into an old friend, scratched an itch. My record for a dry spell is eight months, twenty-three days. I’d hate to set a new one, frankly.”
“You want me to help you keep your current record intact?”
She shrugged. It didn’t trouble her he’d continued to stretch, continued to watch her. If you couldn’t be straightforward about sex, what was the point in being an adult?
“Unless I’m reading you wrong—doubtful but possible—you could use a roll the same as me. It also occurred to me
we’re going to be right back in the bloody thick of it anytime. I don’t want to go down without getting laid if I can help it. So I’m saying you could scratch my itch, I could scratch yours. No frills, no worries.”