Page 22 of Captive

A minute passes, maybe two, and I finish my set of reps and then slowly sit up and face her, my legs on either side of the bench, knees spread wide. Don’t mean to brag, but the position definitely showcases what I’ve got packing between the legs. Whether or not she notices, I can’t say. If she does, she keeps her cards close to her chest.

“Can I help you?” I say as I wipe off the sweat from my brow.

Abby’s grin widens, and she flashes me a perfect set of pearly whites. “Yeah, I thought, since you’re clearly the muscle-head of this house, you could show me some exercises. If I’m going to go out with you, I need to pump these muscles up.” She demonstrates said muscles by flexing her arms—and while she is somewhat toned, not flabby in the slightest, she also doesn’t have much muscle definition.

“You want to work out?” I can’t help but sound incredulous. If she’s doing this to get closer to me, she doesn’t need to bother. As far as I’m concerned, if she asks for it, I’ll get up right now, close the door to the basement, barricade us in here, and take her on a one-way trip to poundtown.

What would Hawthorne do, if I did? What could he do? We don’t kill women. We do what we do because we lost women who were important to us. Even the mysterious Benefactor wouldn’t go against our code and tell us to kill her, so what kind of punishment could there really be?

I know what the consequence for trying to quit the team would be, but I don’t think getting close to Abby would merit that kind of finality.

“Is that so shocking?” she asks, giving me a pout that is too damn cute to belong in this house. With her pastel-colored hair, she is quite the specimen. Oh, yeah. I really would love to bend her over every which way, see what that body of hers is really capable of.

She can get her hands dirty, we know that much already. It isn’t too far-fetched to think the rest of her can be just as dirty.

“Maybe it is,” I say. “But if you’re serious, I can show you a few.”

“Mmhmm, I bet you could.” You’d have to be deaf to not hear the desire in her voice, the way she takes on a sultry tone. When she says it, it’s damn near impossible for me to ignore it and pretend it didn’t go straight to my dick.

It’s been a long, long fucking time, okay? A hand just doesn’t cut it the same way. Up until now, I was more than willing to make that sacrifice, but now that Abby’s here, now that she might join us permanently… well, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to not think with my other head.

I get off the bench, and I make sure to do so in a way that places me directly in front of her, mere inches between us. I tower over her; she’s short, maybe five feet tall, give or take an inch. Her face reaches my upper chest, and she has to crane her neck back to keep hold of my stare. Those gray eyes of hers do drop for a split second, taking me in anew, and she runs her tongue along her bottom lip in a gesture that is way too fucking tempting.

Fuck, this one. How the hell am I supposed to stay away? The air between us is thick with electric tension, the kind that sparks flames. The moment we give in, it’ll be over, I know it. I know it in my heart of hearts, and it’s the only reason I’m able to step aside and say, “Lay down on the bench.”

“Uh…” She puckers her lips as she glances at the weights on the bar. “Call me crazy, but I don’t think I can bench—what is that? Two hundred?”

“More like three,” I correct her. “But don’t worry, we’ll start slow. The bar itself weighs forty-five pounds. I’ll spot you, in case you can’t do it.”

It’s more than evident she has no idea what I’m talking about, because she sounds suspicious as she moves toward the bench and says, “Okay…” The word stretches on, like she’s afraid to let it go, and only when she finishes saying it does she lay down and I get to work on taking off the round weights off each end of the bar.

Only when the bar is free of the weights do I move to stand at the top of the bench. “Scoot down a bit,” I tell her, and she does as I instruct. I take the bar and move it down two notches, since her arms aren’t as long as mine. “Now keep your shoulder blades together as you pick up the bar.”

She squares her shoulders and then reaches for the bar, although she doesn’t go to pick it up right away. “Man, this feels weird. Are you sure about the shoulder blades thing?”

“Yep. You need to have the right figure if you want to work out the correct muscles and not fuck anything up in the process. Believe it or not, you can lift wrong. A lot of beginners do.”

“Whatever you say.” She lifts the bar, and in the process of bringing it down, she loses the correct posture. I can see it in the way she tenses up as that bar lowers to her chest.

I pick up the bar, helping her push it up. “See? You felt that in the wrong spot, didn’t you? You want to work out the muscles in your upper arms and chest with this, not the shoulders and neck. You’ll have a sore-ass neck tomorrow if you keep doing it wrong. Try it again.”

This next rep she does slower, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Better to do things slowly and correctly than quickly and wrong when it comes to weightlifting. I wait to scold her on her figure again, but what would you know? Doing it nice and slow means she does it right.

She struggles somewhat as she lifts the bar, and I catch it with my hands to give her a break. “That was good, much better. You’re a fast learner.”

“That’s what they say,” she says with a grin. “You’re not a bad teacher, either, so I’m sure that helps.”

I coach her through an entire set of reps, and she does her best for each one. On the seventh rep her arms shake, and I can tell she’s seconds from losing grip on the bar and letting it come crashing down onto her chest, so I take it from her and set it on the stand.

“Let’s try some dumbbells,” I say, offering her my hand as I move around the bench, not thinking twice about it, and she must also not be thinking twice, because she takes my hand and lets me pull her up.

It wouldn’t mean anything if she was literally anyone else, but since she’s not… since she’s Abby, our little complication, our little killer, it’s more than that.

Her hand? Fucking soft. Too soft. So much softer than mine it’s unreal. The very moment her hand slips into mine, it’s like I short-circuit and lose my train of thought.

A moment passes, and Abby asks, “Is this a workout, too? Hand-holding for bodybuilders?” Though she jests, she doesn’t take her hand out of mine, and the depths of her gaze twinkle as she says it.

I drop her hand and move away from her. If I don’t, I might get other ideas, like locking us both in here and getting sweaty in a whole new way. God, those particular muscles of mine could use some stretching.