“You got this. This is nothing for you, come on!” I boost. His eyes flit to mine while he holds his breath, his pupils a deep black from the effort, the ring of blue around them practically glowing, as if he’s more machine than man. Perhaps he is, because when he reaches the top, he leaves his eyes on mine as he grunts out, “Again!”
I hold his intense stare, gauging his command, rooting out whether he’s simply showing off for me or working to improve . . . for him.
I nod when I realize he’s going to do this no matter what my response is, and I tighten my hold on the bar, not wanting him to injure himself on my watch. The bar falls more easily this time, his resistance weakened, and as it bounces off his chest, his drained power becomes evident.
“Come on!” he shouts at himself. I help with the lift just enough to give him an edge, his left arm stronger than his right; most of my work is to keep the bar level.
“Almost there,” I say, even though he’s only a quarter in to the return.
“Come on, push!” His eyes lock on mine again with my shout, and the doubt clears away behind them. He growls as his grip tightens, my hands sliding toward his, holding his fingers in place, not so much lifting as guiding him up. The muscles and tendons on his forearms and biceps roll in waves, working in unison to pass this hurdle. The moment the bar rolls back onto the rack, a hard breath rushes from his mouth, puffing his cheeks before his arms fall limp at his sides.
The smile that stretches his maroon lips is instant, and so very wide. Dimples mark both cheeks and the rush of blood comes back into his face as laughter billows in his throat and through his mouth in apparent relief.
“Goddamn, that was hard,” he admits.
My hands are still on the bar as I stare down at him, my hair no longer obeying where I put it, instead sticking to my neck and face. I barely did any work and I’m sweating. Cannon was right, but it’s the feel of his hands underneath mine, trusting mine, working with mine, that makes me rush with heat.
I suddenly need distance between us. I fall back a few steps to another bench, sitting down to pull my long-sleeved shirt over my head, and wiping away the sweat from my neck and forehead. I’m in my sports bra, which is never weird for me, and usually isn’t a big deal for other guys in gyms. But my bare arms and midriff are Cannon’s primary focus as he stares at me upside down, his head tilted up and his hair falling from the end of the bench while he stares at me from his lying position.
Leaning back, I place my palms on the bench behind me and stretch a little, fully aware of what this position does to my breasts and stomach. I’m basically a peacock right now, tits for feathers. I’m not a Victoria Secret model, my size modest, but B-cups pronounced from my muscle can draw attention. I’ve never really wanted someone to look. It’s antithetical to what I preach. Fuck hypocrisy, though, because this is the first time since our kiss that Cannon Jennings has looked at me and licked his lips.
“You wanna go next?” He asks the question while still meeting my gaze from upside down. It’s somehow easier to look him in the eyes this way.
I nod and get up just as he does. We cross paths, our arms brushing as we pass and he moves to stand at the bar while I position myself on my back, feet flat on the ground and my eyes fighting not to look past the bar and into his. I focus on my hands while shifting my butt on the bench until my lower back finds comfort. I test my grip while Cannon removes most of the weight. He’s about to take another twenty-five plate off when I stop him.
“I can do that,” I say. It’s my max. It took me all summer to get up to one-twenty-five, and I was stubborn about it. I can tell Cannon has reservations by the way his gaze sticks to mine, his head slightly angled. His doubt fuels me.
“I said I can do that, so let’s go, pitcher boy.” He flinches at my tease but shakes his head while smiling.
“Pretty sure in the short time I’ve known you I’ve learned when I can and can’t tell you to do things,” he mutters.
“And that would be never. You can never tell me what to do,” I respond, my mouth a tight, serious line for exactly two seconds before I let my laugh break through.
“I’m pretty sure you’re not joking about that.” He winces in one eye and smiles crooked. I nod toward the bar and try my damnedest to focus on this heavy-ass weight I’m about to lift up from my chest.
“Alright, Staten Island girl, show me what you got!” His encouragement is genuine, and it’s enough to get me through the first thrust, lifting the bar off the rack and into position above my chest. Now comes the hard part.
I flit my gaze to his in a brief panic, and his grip tightens on the bar as he senses I need more help than I let on. He doesn’t bail me out, though, which I appreciate. He’s going to make me follow through with this.
“Come on. First one; we can get to three,” he says, his voice low as he bends forward and speaks at me.
“Four,” I grunt back. I can feel his assistance, his hold taking enough of the weight off for me not to crush my ribs, and as I let the bar hit my chest, I’m able to rebound it back up. I grit my teeth and tense my jaw so much that I feel
