Read Online Soaked (The Water's Edge #2) by Stacy Kestwick - Free Book Online
Authors: Stacy Kestwick
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reaction to her sunscreen which resulted in a permanent skin disfigurement, a red oblong phallic inflammation that started on her nose and extended to her forehead. People began calling her Dickhead behind her back, not that I ever saw her again.
Hell, no. I was busy. Days upon days of makeup sex followed, where my flexibility and loud enthusiasm became legendary at the marina we docked at. A winning lottery ticket extended the spur-of-the-moment trip indefinitely, and we eloped a month later under a tropical, starlit sky, complete with a towering Krispy Kreme doughnut wedding cake, after which we had more days upon days of history-making honeymoon sex. I gave Gumby a run for his money, had enviable thigh gap, and became multi-orgasmic.
I sighed.
Three miles later—yes, on my own, stupid conscience—I captured the requisite proof on my phone and collapsed on the mats, breathing hard.
Nick’s concerned face appeared above me, sweat dripping off his chin and on to me. I blinked in surprise, and, wrinkling my nose, scooted farther back. “You’re getting me all wet!” Okay, yes, I was already damp from my own workout, but him dripping on me like that was just plain gross.
“Finally. You admit it.” He ran his gaze over my panting body, lingering on my heaving chest. “Looks like I’ve stolen your breath too.”
I rolled my eyes, but accepted his outstretched hand and let him pull me to my feet.
Holding on to a nearby weight machine for balance, I tucked my foot up to my butt and stretched my quads. “You’re still here.” Two points for stating the obvious.
He smirked. “I’ve been enjoying the scenery.”
I ignored him and switched legs. If watching me jiggle was the best view he could find in this resort, he needed an eye exam. And a new line.
Opening up Theo’s email again, I scanned the list of exercises he’d sent me. This gym didn’t have a wall of mirrors like I was used to, but I didn’t need them to check my form. Instead, floor-to-ceiling windows faced the ocean, giving the whole workout area more of a Zen-like vibe.
I hefted a light set of weights and commenced punishing my triceps for my indiscretions at the dessert table yesterday. Arm day sucked.
Thirty minutes later, stretching my exhausted muscles one last time, I glanced around. Two other people were powering through their workouts, matching looks of sheer joy on their faces. Ugh. They were those kind of workout people. And Nick was still there, his expensive camera pointed right at me.
I yanked my earbuds out and reflexively put my hand over my face, blocking his shot. “What are you doing?”
He lowered the camera, switched it to display mode, and handed it over to me. “I would’ve thought it was obvious.” His grin was positively roguish.
Scowling, I flipped through a couple dozen shots of me. He’d captured tight close-ups, much like I’d taken of Grady the day before. The sleek flex of my arm. The strong line of my spine as I bent over for triceps rows. The curve of my throat as I’d tipped my face up to catch my breath.
And I looked . . . hot. More than hot, I looked strong, toned . . . sexy.
I was stunned. This was not what I saw when I looked in the mirror.
“I’m good, aren’t I?” He loomed over my shoulder, looking at the images with me. His ego ruined it.
Turning, I shoved the camera at him, catching him in the stomach. “I didn’t give you permission to take those.”
“I didn’t ask.” He raised his eyebrows and looked amused.
I rubbed my arm across my forehead, sweat dripping down my body. I felt gross and sticky. I knew I smelled. It was like his pictures had captured an alternative reality, where I glistened and followed a Paleo diet and got an appropriate amount of sleep every night. It was pretty, but it wasn’t real.
“Not cool, Nick. Do we need to set some basic ground rules here?”
He looked at his camera, then me, through eyes that downright shone with mischief. “I’ll tell
Hell, no. I was busy. Days upon days of makeup sex followed, where my flexibility and loud enthusiasm became legendary at the marina we docked at. A winning lottery ticket extended the spur-of-the-moment trip indefinitely, and we eloped a month later under a tropical, starlit sky, complete with a towering Krispy Kreme doughnut wedding cake, after which we had more days upon days of history-making honeymoon sex. I gave Gumby a run for his money, had enviable thigh gap, and became multi-orgasmic.
I sighed.
Three miles later—yes, on my own, stupid conscience—I captured the requisite proof on my phone and collapsed on the mats, breathing hard.
Nick’s concerned face appeared above me, sweat dripping off his chin and on to me. I blinked in surprise, and, wrinkling my nose, scooted farther back. “You’re getting me all wet!” Okay, yes, I was already damp from my own workout, but him dripping on me like that was just plain gross.
“Finally. You admit it.” He ran his gaze over my panting body, lingering on my heaving chest. “Looks like I’ve stolen your breath too.”
I rolled my eyes, but accepted his outstretched hand and let him pull me to my feet.
Holding on to a nearby weight machine for balance, I tucked my foot up to my butt and stretched my quads. “You’re still here.” Two points for stating the obvious.
He smirked. “I’ve been enjoying the scenery.”
I ignored him and switched legs. If watching me jiggle was the best view he could find in this resort, he needed an eye exam. And a new line.
Opening up Theo’s email again, I scanned the list of exercises he’d sent me. This gym didn’t have a wall of mirrors like I was used to, but I didn’t need them to check my form. Instead, floor-to-ceiling windows faced the ocean, giving the whole workout area more of a Zen-like vibe.
I hefted a light set of weights and commenced punishing my triceps for my indiscretions at the dessert table yesterday. Arm day sucked.
Thirty minutes later, stretching my exhausted muscles one last time, I glanced around. Two other people were powering through their workouts, matching looks of sheer joy on their faces. Ugh. They were those kind of workout people. And Nick was still there, his expensive camera pointed right at me.
I yanked my earbuds out and reflexively put my hand over my face, blocking his shot. “What are you doing?”
He lowered the camera, switched it to display mode, and handed it over to me. “I would’ve thought it was obvious.” His grin was positively roguish.
Scowling, I flipped through a couple dozen shots of me. He’d captured tight close-ups, much like I’d taken of Grady the day before. The sleek flex of my arm. The strong line of my spine as I bent over for triceps rows. The curve of my throat as I’d tipped my face up to catch my breath.
And I looked . . . hot. More than hot, I looked strong, toned . . . sexy.
I was stunned. This was not what I saw when I looked in the mirror.
“I’m good, aren’t I?” He loomed over my shoulder, looking at the images with me. His ego ruined it.
Turning, I shoved the camera at him, catching him in the stomach. “I didn’t give you permission to take those.”
“I didn’t ask.” He raised his eyebrows and looked amused.
I rubbed my arm across my forehead, sweat dripping down my body. I felt gross and sticky. I knew I smelled. It was like his pictures had captured an alternative reality, where I glistened and followed a Paleo diet and got an appropriate amount of sleep every night. It was pretty, but it wasn’t real.
“Not cool, Nick. Do we need to set some basic ground rules here?”
He looked at his camera, then me, through eyes that downright shone with mischief. “I’ll tell
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