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.
I’m 15 years older than Lance and I’m acting like a teenager. Worse than a teenager. Like a lovesick little girl with a crush.
Except I’m not a little girl. I’m a 35-year-old grown woman who’s acting like a fool in front of her stepson.
You can’t see me, b
ut I’m mentally kicking myself as I enter the park and start running around the jogging path around the Reservoir.
I need to stop ogling Lance around the house. I need to stop lusting after his strong back muscles when he walks around shirtless.
I need to focus. My life isn’t that pretty right now. And that’s probably why I’m transferring this lust onto him. I’m being blackmailed into staying in a marriage to a man who obviously doesn’t love me. But I can’t do anything or else my father’s legacy crumbles.
I need to stop thinking about Lance and start worrying about what I’m going to do. Maybe this run will clear my head. Maybe it’ll—
I don’t know what happens but all of a sudden I’m falling and hitting the ground. Before I can even register what’s going on I’m being picked up by a pair of strong hands.
“Shut up, or your dead, bitch,” a gruff voice tells me.