"Lover At Last" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ward, J.R.)

ELEVEN


Blay dropped his head with a curse as the weight room door eased shut. And of course, from that vantage point, all he could see was his cock.

Which did not help.

Shifting his eyes back up, he stared across at the chin-up bar, and knew he had to do something. Sitting here half-drunk with a party in his pants was hardly a position he wanted to get caught in. If a Brother like Rhage walked in on this? Blay would be hearing about it for the rest of his natural life. Besides, he was in his workout gear, surrounded by equipment, so he might as well get busy, pump some iron, and hope that Mr. Happy sank into a depression from lack of attention.

Good plan.

Really.

Yup.

When he glanced at the clock sometime later, he realized fifteen minutes had passed and he was no closer to constructive, repetitive motion, unless you counted breathing.

His erection had a suggestion for that kind of goal.

And his palm was immediately on board, going between his legs, finding that hardтАФ

Blay burst up from the seat and went for the door. Enough with the bullshitтАФhe was going to hit the loo in the locker room in the hope of cycling some of the alcohol out of his system. Then he was going to get on a treadmill and sweat the rest of the booze out.

After which it was time to head to bedтАФwhere, if he needed an outlet of the erotic variety, he was going to find it in the appropriate place.

The first sign that his new plan might have taken him only farther into the weeds came as he pushed his way into locker-landia: the sound of running water meant someone was doing the soap-and-shampoo thing. He was so focused on kicking himself in the butt, however, he didnтАЩt bother with any extrapolations.

Which would have made him stop, turn around, and find another toilet ASAP.

Instead, he went past the lockers and did his business. It wasnтАЩt until he was washing his hands that the math started to add up.

Of its own volition, his head cranked around in the direction of the showers.

You need to leave, he told himself.

As he turned off the faucet, the subtle squeak seemed loud as a scream, and he refused to look at himself in the mirrors. He didnтАЩt want to see what was in his eyes.

Go back to the door. Just go back to the door. JustтАФ

The failure of his body to follow that simple command was not merely an exercise of physical rebellion. It was, tragically, his pattern.

And he would regret it later.

At the moment, however, when he made the choice to walk over, and duck around the tiled wall of the shower room, when he kept himself mostly hidden, when he spied on a male he shouldnтАЩt haveтАжthe mad rush of emotion was so achingly familiar, it was a suit of clothes tailor-fitted to his madness.

Qhuinn was facing into the showerhead he was standing under, one hand braced against the slick wall, his dark head bowed under the spray. Water ran over his shoulders and down the acres of supple skin that covered his powerful backтАжand then flowed onto his magnificent assтАжand went ever farther, past those long, strong legs.