front of it when I get an earful of some rock music and the sound of him punching something, hard.
It doesn’t take much for me to figure out that it must be him letting out his anger and frustration on a punching bag; probably one similar to the one I found him punching in his garage the other day. How many bags does this guy need?
A huge part of me says to turn around and leave without telling him, but the other part has me feeling bad at the thought, remembering the look of concern in his eyes when he asked me to come here. Obviously he knows Ryder much better than I do, so I trusted his judgment and the sincerity in his eyes was real. It was a moment of weakness, but that moment is far gone now, thanks to his dickhead attitude.
Pulling the door open, I slowly walk down the stairs, listening to him growl out as he lets out his frustration. I have to admit, there is something oddly sexy about hearing his grunts; to the point that I almost want to sit back and just watch him pound his fist into the bag, all sweaty and out of breath. The thought gives me chills, but I move past it and keep walking.
Once I get to the bottom of the steps I look around the corner to see him standing shirtless and sweaty, his back muscles flexing as he continues to beat the big, black bag in front of him. It’s somewhat dark and almost hard to see him from this distance, so I walk further into the basement.
Each swing seems to pack more heat as he continues to work out his anger. I’ve never seen him shirtless. Holy fucking shit! It has rendered me speechless just from his back alone.
Every single muscle in his back is defined and flexed, changing visually with each steady hit to the bag in front of him, only stopping occasionally to wipe the sweat from his forehead. There’s also a huge tattoo that stretches across his back that reads, Never back down. Fight . And the O from the word “down” turns into a pink ribbon for breast cancer.
It causes my anger toward him to slowly fade and for me to be able to meditate on the beauty in front of me. He’s obviously had someone in his family battle breast cancer and seeing the ribbon on his back just proves how supportive he must have been. This is real beauty to me.
I find myself grabbing for my camera, pulling the lens cap off, and snapping a few pictures of him from behind. With each move that he makes, the pictures only seem to become more stunning to me. The human body is an extraordinary thing and his is a work of art. I continue to snap a few shots until he freezes and grips the bag. That’s when I notice the huge mirror on the wall in front of him. He’s now looking at me.
Wanting to capture his face I snap a few shots as he turns around. The look on his face is both intense and sexy at the same damn time. He flexes his jaw and takes a few steps toward me, stopping a few feet in front of me. His icy eyes bore into mine, sweat running over his eyelids and down his strong facial features.
“I thought I told you to stay upstairs? Dammit, Lyric.” His voice is thick and harsh as he fights to catch his breath.
I swallow as he grabs my camera and removes it from around my neck, setting it down on his dresser. My treacherous eyes wander down to his stiff chest and abs, landing directly on the V of muscle leading down into his jeans. The narrow, moist patch of brown hair almost causes my mouth to water as I think about what it leads to.
“I’m leaving,” I blurt out, unsure of how to act now that my resolve has crumbled. “I was coming to let you know. Now give me my camera so I can go.”
He walks forward until I’m backed against the wall with his arms pinning me in. He inhales a deep breath and leans down so that his lips are just inches above mine. Our bodies aren’t touching, yet my stupid body is reacting as if we are. My breathing picks up. I smell his minty breath mixed with hard liquor as it brushes against my lips.
“You like taking pictures of me, Lyric?” He
It doesn’t take much for me to figure out that it must be him letting out his anger and frustration on a punching bag; probably one similar to the one I found him punching in his garage the other day. How many bags does this guy need?
A huge part of me says to turn around and leave without telling him, but the other part has me feeling bad at the thought, remembering the look of concern in his eyes when he asked me to come here. Obviously he knows Ryder much better than I do, so I trusted his judgment and the sincerity in his eyes was real. It was a moment of weakness, but that moment is far gone now, thanks to his dickhead attitude.
Pulling the door open, I slowly walk down the stairs, listening to him growl out as he lets out his frustration. I have to admit, there is something oddly sexy about hearing his grunts; to the point that I almost want to sit back and just watch him pound his fist into the bag, all sweaty and out of breath. The thought gives me chills, but I move past it and keep walking.
Once I get to the bottom of the steps I look around the corner to see him standing shirtless and sweaty, his back muscles flexing as he continues to beat the big, black bag in front of him. It’s somewhat dark and almost hard to see him from this distance, so I walk further into the basement.
Each swing seems to pack more heat as he continues to work out his anger. I’ve never seen him shirtless. Holy fucking shit! It has rendered me speechless just from his back alone.
Every single muscle in his back is defined and flexed, changing visually with each steady hit to the bag in front of him, only stopping occasionally to wipe the sweat from his forehead. There’s also a huge tattoo that stretches across his back that reads, Never back down. Fight . And the O from the word “down” turns into a pink ribbon for breast cancer.
It causes my anger toward him to slowly fade and for me to be able to meditate on the beauty in front of me. He’s obviously had someone in his family battle breast cancer and seeing the ribbon on his back just proves how supportive he must have been. This is real beauty to me.
I find myself grabbing for my camera, pulling the lens cap off, and snapping a few pictures of him from behind. With each move that he makes, the pictures only seem to become more stunning to me. The human body is an extraordinary thing and his is a work of art. I continue to snap a few shots until he freezes and grips the bag. That’s when I notice the huge mirror on the wall in front of him. He’s now looking at me.
Wanting to capture his face I snap a few shots as he turns around. The look on his face is both intense and sexy at the same damn time. He flexes his jaw and takes a few steps toward me, stopping a few feet in front of me. His icy eyes bore into mine, sweat running over his eyelids and down his strong facial features.
“I thought I told you to stay upstairs? Dammit, Lyric.” His voice is thick and harsh as he fights to catch his breath.
I swallow as he grabs my camera and removes it from around my neck, setting it down on his dresser. My treacherous eyes wander down to his stiff chest and abs, landing directly on the V of muscle leading down into his jeans. The narrow, moist patch of brown hair almost causes my mouth to water as I think about what it leads to.
“I’m leaving,” I blurt out, unsure of how to act now that my resolve has crumbled. “I was coming to let you know. Now give me my camera so I can go.”
He walks forward until I’m backed against the wall with his arms pinning me in. He inhales a deep breath and leans down so that his lips are just inches above mine. Our bodies aren’t touching, yet my stupid body is reacting as if we are. My breathing picks up. I smell his minty breath mixed with hard liquor as it brushes against my lips.
“You like taking pictures of me, Lyric?” He
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