Page 42 of Keep Your Guard Up
Exhale.
He nipped lightly, almost teasingly at the skin beside my wine-red G-string, as if teasing himself with the proximity of what sat so close, so slick and eager.
Inhale.
A skittering electric sensation filled my nerves in anticipation at the slowness of his goddamnteethas they removed the delicate fabric.
Exhale.
Nothing could have ever warned me—ever prepared me for the other-worldly sensation of Chance Riordan devouring me as if I were his own personal feast.
The door opening dumped cold water all over me. I could practically feel steam coming off me when the man himself entered the room, all six-feet-three-inches of sex-on-legs.
He looked at me; a burning gaze that I was sure was actually about to set the office on fire. Two lines formed between his eyebrows as a mask slid over his face. A perfect facade of boredom and indifference, as if I was nothing but some shit he’d accidentally stepped on. He held eye contact with me, those blue eyes as hot as the centre of a flame, as he dropped his duffel bag on his desk before he turned and strode out.
The hell?
“Five minutes! Wrap your hands. No excuse to miss warm-ups!” The authority in Chance’s voice, sexy as it was, had me up and out of the office. I grabbed a set of my favourite blue wraps from the shelf, not missing the way my brain instantly recognised them as the same colour as Chance’s eyes.
The gym had almost silenced itself at Chance’s sudden reveal of his bad mood. A few people were muttering, talking quietly and avoiding looking anywhere near where he stood. I tucked one wrap in my bra as I unfurled the other. A few guys—JJ, Franko, Jonesy—had already started shadowboxing.
I tried to catch Chance’s eyes as he watched them warm up. Dread found a new home and pitted itself in the bottom of my stomach.
Does he regret last night?
More and more questions and imaginary scenarios were spinning around my head in a whirlwind by the time I finished wrapping my first hand. I hadn’t taken my eyes off Chance. My fingers tingled slightly, telling me I’d wrapped my hand too tightly.
“Two minutes!” he shouted, not taking his eyes off the now extended group of people shadowboxing. The increasing stiffness of his body, of those sculpted muscles, told me heknewI was watching him.
“Time’s up! Everybody on the wall!”
My jaw dropped.Two minutes my ass …
I fumbled with my last wrap to get it down, pulling it tighter than the last without thinking.
Thirty of us stood on the wall. The tension was palpable.
These were my people. I knew them so well I couldfeeltheir exhaustion, the alcohol their bodies were still processing.
“Shoes on. Run down to the Murray and back. For every thirty seconds you miss the time limit, it’s twenty burpees for the team.”
“What’s the time limit?” I asked, the apprehension now rippling like a wave through the group.
Chance clenched his jaw but still didn’t meet my eyes. “Ten minutes.”
You could hear the crickets. To get there and back in ten minutes would be hauling ass on nearly a full sprint.
“But that’s—” I started.
Chance’s eyes finally snapped to mine.
“For every word of bitchin’, the burpee tally starts,” he said coolly. None of that warmth from last night in his eyes. None ofthat tension-based mocking we’d been teasing each other with for the past few weeks. Nothing but pure ice.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
You wanna play, Riordan? I can play. Game on.
“Go,” he said, almost sounding bored.
