Meg Maguire - Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down - Making Him Sweat / Taking Him Down

Mercer seemed to consider the proposal, standing up straight and measuring the counter with his gaze. He took a step back. “About like that?”

“Yes. It just seems safer. Well, maybe safe ’s not the word—less complicated.”

“So, that means you still like me, even when you’re not drunk?” A different smile, one Jenna enjoyed far too much.

“I was not drunk. And don’t flirt with me. That’s off-limits as well. I don’t know what exactly’s going on with us, attraction-wise. But no need to make it worse. No passing by each other in small spaces, no suggestive remarks…”

“No assaulting me with the sink sprayer?”

“Sadly, no. None of that stuff.” She sighed, knowing that flirting their way around this topic wasn’t going to do a lick of good. “I don’t…I don’t trust myself around you, and we’re the last two people who need to get confused about who we are to each other.”

“You feel confused about last night? I thought it was pretty straightforward.”

She made an exasperated noise. “I’m trying to be serious for a second. That’s yet another reason to be careful around each other until you move out. I don’t work the way I suspect you do, with sex. It’s very… complicated.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

She shot him a stern look, then went back to chopping. “I’m a pretty stereotypical woman when it comes to sex. It changes everything, emotionally, whether I want it to or not. You seem like a stereotypical man about it. If we did it—which we won’t —”

“Noted.”

“—you’d probably feel the same way about me the next day.”

“And as a stereotypical woman you’d find that infuriating.”

“Likely. Hence the restraining order.”

Mercer crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “You’re right. You’d definitely feel different about me the next day. I’m even better at sex than I am at kissing.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Sorry. I’ll quit it.” He paused a moment before going on. “And I’m with you, incidentally. I think us messing around is a lousy idea, too. It’s just fun winding you up.”

Though she forced herself to nod and say, “I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Jenna felt a pang to hear Mercer agree. She knew in her head that made no sense, but a tiny, illogical part of her couldn’t help but think, How can it be terrible, when it feels so wonderful?

They ate on the couch, the empty cushion between them taunting. So far, yet so close. Jenna found a news special on TV covering a very bloody civil war. If that couldn’t kill the restlessness warming her body, nothing would. Sadly, she caught herself glancing Mercer’s way every minute or two, remembering everything that had happened on that end of the couch, twenty-four hours earlier. Clearly, her attraction was more potent than violent overseas unrest.

Mercer had gone quiet, and stayed that way through the meal. He was rattled, and from what, she couldn’t be sure. By her fessing up to the fact that there was no such thing as strings-free sex to her? Surely that would give a man like Mercer much-needed pause. Or perhaps from the simple fact that his entire life had been turned upside down in the past four days. By her. Also a distinct possibility, and an ugly one. Guilt soured Jenna’s stomach.

When dinner was done Mercer took her plate, and Jenna honored their restraining order and let him do the dishes alone. Though she did steal a couple glances at his shoulders as he worked, those swells of muscle highlighted by the kitchen’s overhead bulbs. Oops.

She changed into lounge pants and a T-shirt and cardigan and got cozy on her end of the couch. There was a pre-grand-opening client recruitment party to organize for mid-September, and now was the perfect time to fill her head with lists. Get her mind off the man sharing her home.

When Mercer finished cleaning the kitchen, he eyed her for a moment before announcing, “I’m gonna head downstairs for a little while.”

“If I don’t see you before I go to bed, good night.”

He nodded, filled a water bottle from the sink and left, dead bolt snapping behind him. Jenna released a held breath.

She should have gone to bed at ten. By eleven, surely. Yet when quarter to midnight rolled around, she was still watching TV, barely taking in the program. She wasn’t preoccupied by party to-dos, either. Her list was exactly one item long. Hire assistant . No, it was still Mercer, keeping her distracted, her feelings for him pacing low in her belly, a restless, reckless awareness.

But at twelve-thirty, curiosity became concern. Mercer’s “little while” was now pushing three hours, and the gym was long closed for the night.

She grabbed her keys, slid into flip-flops and went down to the first floor. The office was dark, but the stairs to the gym were lit.

She heard Mercer before she saw him, the thump of his fist and the hiss of his sharp breaths. The space felt huge in the darkness, its smell mysterious, heady and foreign as a jungle.

Only the lights illuminating the row of heavy bags along one wall were switched on. Mercer was dressed in shorts, barefoot and shirtless, gloves on his hands. The bulbs cast him in harsh, dramatic shadows, his shoulders shining with sweat. The bag was suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain, and it jangled with every kick and punch, every knee and elbow he whacked it with. He danced from foot to foot, lost in his own world, in his imaginary battle.

Jenna’s legs went wobbly, heat pooling in traitorous places. This man didn’t waste any of the physical gifts humans were born with, every muscle honed and disciplined and punished, day after day, until he made violence look like art. That this workout was likely inspired by the angst she’d roused in him dampened her pleasure.

After another minute’s assault, Mercer paused to grab a bottle of water from the mat beside him. Jenna approached.

When he set the bottle down, she caught his eye and he started. “Jesus, don’t sneak up on me when I’m wearing these.” He held up his gloved hands.

“Sorry. What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

“If I had to guess, you’re working off how annoyed you must be at me.”

He blinked, looking more startled than when he’d spotted her.

“We can talk about it, if you want. But maybe this is how you prefer to—”

“I’m not angry at you.” He looked troubled. “I’m definitely not down here wailing on something because I wish I could wail on you.”

“No, I didn’t think that .”

“I’m trying to wear myself out.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Three times he opened his mouth, poised to say something, only to close it again.

“What?”

He shook his head. “It’ll sound like flirting and you’ll chew me out again, so forget it.”

“No, what?”

He huffed a breath through his nose. “I’m down here wearing myself out, so the second I put my head on the pillow I’ll be unconscious. ’Cause if I don’t, my brain’s gonna be full of thoughts that probably violate some mental restraining order you didn’t tell me about.”

Jenna’s turn to start. For a split second her mind supplied a vision of such a thing, of Mercer succumbing to fantasies about whatever inappropriate things he felt she was denying them. She shoved the image away. His body was dangerous and distracting enough, here in reality. No good could come of hypothesizing about the few bits of him she’d yet to lay her eyes—or hands—on.

With a huff, Mercer sat cross-legged on the mat. He ripped the Velcro straps from his wrists and tugged off his gloves. His hands were wrapped in white tape, and he ran them over his head, blowing out a heavy breath.