Page 34 of The Pucking Arrangement

Like a man realizing he’s completely, utterly fucked.

Chapter8

Just Torture Me Already

Dmitri

Sleep is a lost cause. My body is exhausted, but my mind is a war zone.

The faint scent of vanilla clings to my sheets like a ghost, haunting me. Storytime replays in my head on an endless loop—her laughter, the soft cadence of her voice, the way she fit into the moment so effortlessly, so dangerously. Rest isn’t rest. It’s torture.

By the time the first streaks of dawn break through the blinds, I’m done fighting it. The gym calls to me. A hard workout would be ideal—something grueling, something to burn through the unwanted thoughts crawling under my skin. But it’s game night, and I have to take it easy. No heavy lifts. No punishment. Just mobility drills and activation work to keep my body ready.

I grab my water bottle and head downstairs, running through my plan. Light resistance bands. Core engagement. Some bodyweight drills?—

Der’mo.

She’s here.

In my gym.

I freeze in the doorway. Erin is seated at the cable machine, back straight, arms steady as she pulls through a set of face pulls with slow, measured precision. Completely focused. Completely unaware of the absolute wreckage she’s about to cause me.

And she’s wearing?—

Bozhe moy.

A sports bra. Snug shorts. Soft curves and taut muscle wrapped in fabric that clings like it was designed to ruin me. The soft glow of the recessed lighting highlights every controlled movement, every flex of toned thighs and defined arms.

Thighs that would look fucking incredible straddling my face.

I swallow hard, gripping my water bottle so tightly the plastic crumples in my palm.

What the hell was I thinking, telling her she could use the gym?

I consider turning away—coming back later, avoiding her altogether.

But I stay rooted to the spot. And watch.

Her delts and biceps flex with each motion, exuding control that sends my pulse speeding—a raw, instinctive reaction to an undeniably beautiful woman.

That’s all this is.

When she catches my reflection in the mirror, she startles and carefully releases the cable. “Oh! I didn’t— I thought— It’s early. I don’t want to intrude.”

“No, no, the gym is big enough. Stay.”

She stands from the bench, turns, and—bozhe moy.A light sheen of sweat makes her skin glow in the dim gym lighting. A single stray curl has slipped from her ponytail, teasing the curve of her throat. My fingers twitch with the need to brush it away, but I clench them into fists instead.

“Are you sure?” she asks, dabbing her forehead with a towel. “I can come back later?—

“No. We can work out together.” The words snap out.

She hesitates, then nods, reaching for her water bottle. The motion pulls her sports bra tighter across her chest, forcing my gaze to jerk away.

I pivot, striding toward the band rack, hyper-focused on my training. Not her. Not the way her muscles shift as she picks up her weights again, her back flexing with every rep.

Focus.

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