WORK AND PLEASURE

The nerve of this guy. The sheer nerve of this ridiculously hot guy. The only thing I’ve learned in the short time I’ve sweated like a pig in this office is that two truths can co exist. One; my trainer is a big, fat prick, and he is also the devil.

Probably not the best analogy since I’m here to find The Devil.

But how else do I describe a man who asked me to hold a squat for hours and then never once looks up to check if I somehow died while holding the squat? My toes died sometime after the first ten minutes, but I’ll be damned if I let him think he can jerk me around for his amusement.

Grounding my teeth, i shake my head, clearing the fog that’s threatening to pull me under as I glare at him. My finger tips are beginning to numb and there’s nothing I can do about it besides shaking them out.

My body begins to vibrate and my fucking trainer still doesn’t look up.

A slew of cuss words leave my lips as I collapse to the ground in a sweaty heap.

 “Time out. I call time out.” I pant like an overworked farm animal, I don’t care. I’m sweating through every pore, there’s no way I’m not also sweating through my eyeballs.

Panting with my mouth open, eyes on the intricate ceiling design, there’s not a single technique I know from school that’s able to help me right now.

Why is it so fucking hot in here??

Water. I need water so fucking bad– There’s an untouched bottle on his table and I rush towards it, hands trembling as I unscrew the cap, the second the water hit my tongue an embarrassing moan slips from me. I find it incredibly difficult to care who heard and what they thought of me.

The bottle is empty too soon.

My eyes widen when I look up to find him looking at me. I’m going to blame the fact that he’d startled me– as the only reason something warm rushes up my spine, I was just startled.

“I drank your water, hope you don’t mind.”

His eyes do that slow rake to the bottle in my hands, and I fight the urge to hide my hands behind my body. It’s weird the way his eyes roam my body.

Unable to take the awkwardness of his eyes crawling all over me like that, I clear my throat loudly, it does nothing to deter him, his eyes continue their slow crawl up my body and settling on my eyes.

"Second rule, don’t touch anything unless I give you the permission to.”

I scoff.

“Relax man, it’s just water.”

“Bring yours next time.” he tells me in that sinfully deep voice. Without my permission, my body reacts to it and it’s the shame that causes me to act before I think.

I drop into one of his guest chairs, and if I wasn’t looking at him closely, I’d have missed the slight flare of his nostrils. But I was looking, and after almost an hour of squats and ignoring me, it feels like I touched the cloud. I can’t help the thrill that rushes through me.

“What are you doing?” his voice still has that unbothered lithe to it. It only pushes me to want to change it.

“I’m taking a break, what does it look like I’m doing?” I ask, spreading my legs wide and pushing my body forward so I’m between them.

He watches me pointedly, unamused. It occurs to me that he’s waiting for me to yield to him like I did the first time. Not happening.

He might be my trainer but he’s not my boss.

“Get back to your squats.”

“Nah. Fuck that.” I say, settling back into the back rest, the leather squeaking under my sweat soaked form. His eyes remain on me, and I watch him back. From the green eyes, they are like gemstones. I have to look up exactly what gemstones they are.

I’ve seen nothing prettier.

Nope. I only think he’s pretty, my type has never been the big guys, I’ve only ever gone for the twinks, the ones shorter than I am, sure he has dimples and pretty eyes, but it means I can appreciate beauty when I see one.

Besides, he has a shit attitude. And I don’t mix work and pleasure.

Still, to have him bent over his table– huh. My brain is usually very adept at visualizing things like this, why can’t I imagine–?

The air around me is suddenly so fucking stifling, it feels like my skin is melting right off my skull. My lungs are unable to process the hot air, and when I look up, mouth open to take gulps of fresh air, I come face to face with him.

I wheeze, shrinking back into my seat, it’s useless, he commands the air around him, bends it until it’s his.

“What did I say about repeating myself?” his voice is eerily calm, unaffected by the heat, not a bead of sweat on his face while I feel like I’m dying.

“Can… turn on the A.C.” I say, head swiveling in a desperate attempt to escape.

There’s no air conditioning in the room, the windows are shut. What the fuck? Is he trying to kill us both? I can’t die just yet.

I jump out of the seat, feeling my clothes grow heavier from the sheer amount of sweat they’ve absorbed. My hands touch the cool surface of the pane, finding the latch, my vision swims.

Why is it so fucking hot??

When did it get so hot??

As the latch comes undone under my touch and I stick mt head out of it, sucking in lungs full of fresh air.

“Ahhh.” I groan as the cold air hits my face.

I’ll never take fresh air for granted ever again–

 I’m slammed right back into the office, my back against the wall, a pair of green eyes hovering right above me and in my personal space.

“You will listen to me when I talk to you.” he growls, and I mean growl. The sound is exotic and so fucking sexy.

His lips are pressed in a thin line, eyes hard as they attempt to bore into me.

 I wonder how his lips would taste if he kissed me while being so fucking pissed off.

He’s pissed… at me.

I push against his chest– a laughable attempt at putting space between us– he doesn’t budge. What is this dude made of exactly?? Most importantly, what the hell is his issue?

“It’s hot in here and I was drowning under my own sweat, so forgive me if I didn’t drop down into a squat as you wanted, Remy.” I hiss at him.

He didn’t pay me any attention or even notice when I obeyed him, but the second I disobey, he wants to act like it’s the end of the world.

Have I mentioned that I don’t like my trainer? If I haven’t, then I haven’t brought you up to speed and for that, I apologize.

I fucking dislike him, and his stupid sexy face, and his stupid hard chest.

"What did I tell you to call me?”

I blink at him, feeling the whiplash from the conversation switch. How did– why did that even fucking matter right now?

“You’re either my trainer o–”

“Get out.”

My mouth drops open wordlessly, then shuts, an incredulous noise slips through my lips as I watch his retreating back. He walks with that confident, deliberate stride that annoys the living shit out of me.

“Get out of your office or?” I ask, feeling stupid for asking in the first place.

He waits until he’s seated, spine straight, eyes meeting mine. He levels me with a look.

 I shuffle from one foot to the other, swallowing the words I want to hurl at him instead.

“We’re done here.”