My hand goes to his, which, as I mentioned, is on his athletic cup, and I make a rubbing motion. His eyes fly open, and he looks at my hand and then me like I might be a crazy person.
You know, he might have a point.
“Shit again! Sorry, I was just trying to make it feel better.”
His expression doesn't change, and it makes me nervous.
“Uh, here, let me get some ice,” I say, jogging over to the kitchen, mostly to stop myself from further molesting my employee.
He's still moaning as I grab a Ziploc baggie and fill it with ice. Grabbing a couple of paper towels from the roll, I hurry back and hand them to him. “Here. I assume you don't want my help with that.”
Snatching the bag of ice from my hands, he grunts, “You would assume correctly.”
“But…you can't be mad at me. You said! You pointed out the cup and said I could aim for your groin and it would be okay. This is…we…this is practice! It's training. I wasn't trying to…”
Putting the baggie of ice on his crotch, Anthony holds up his free hand. “I already said we're good. The cup just shifted the wrong way. It's nobody's fault. And I don't mean to be inappropriate, but I need to take this off.”
I nod. “Oh, of course.”
We look at each other, awkward.
“Mads, I need you to look away,” he says, grimacing.
“Oh, duh. Sorry.” I spin around, facing the window, feeling like the worst kind of loser. “Sorry,” I repeat.
When I saw the thin sweatpants, I forgot the bit about the cup and immediately assumed the pronounced outline was nature's gift to all of humanity. Fuck, I shouldn't have been so horny. This all feels like my fault.
Also, the window gives me a watery reflection of his ass as he steps out of his sweatpants.
Shit. Look away, Mads.
That’s right. We do not objectify…oh God. Hello, jock strap perfection. And just look at the pure strength of his ass and thighs. No wonder he can pick me up like a bag of flour. He’s got fucking Atlas thighs.
Wait. This is inappropriate. I should definitely stop looking.
Anthony groans, and my eyes fly back to the wavy image. He’s gingerly pulling the jock down past his thighs, letting gravity do the rest of the work as it lands with a clunk on the wooden floor. Taking a second to breathe, he cups his junk and shakes out his muscles. He glances over his shoulder, and my eyes hit the hardwood faster than the speed of sound.
Here’s hoping he can’t see his reflection from over there.
Definitely going to stop ogling him.
Starting now.
My ears perk up at the sound of brushed cotton being pulled up hairy legs, and not gonna lie, I sneak another look at the reflection in the window. Hanging on to my self-control by the barest margin, I stifle a complaint as the gray material obscures the sexiest, most well-formed ass on the planet.
I am so not a good person right now.
And at some point, I’m really going to regret not taking the high road.
Not at this exact moment, of course. But someday.
“Okay. You can turn around.”
Despite my mostly accidental voyeurism, I'm grateful he sounds less pained. Though my greedy eyes immediately fly to his crotch when I turn to face him. Because I clearly learned nothing from this little incide—oh. Oh wow.
Yeah. I am no longer assuming anything about his size. I can one hundred percent confirm that Anthony Edgerton works for United Movers. Because dude is packing. Grade-A girth, USDA approved length…packing.
Shit, fuck, piss, damn, hell.