Stuck Landing

by Lauren Gallagher

  “I guess I had some stress fractures, and that landing . . .” She shook her head. “It’s much better now, but there were other stress fractures, and none of them healed quite right. So sometimes it hurts.”

  “And that was all from gymnastics?”

  She laughed dryly. “I was lucky. Could’ve been much, much worse.”

  “It’s funny how gymnasts make it look so easy. You wouldn’t know how taxing it really is on the body.”

  Another laugh, quieter this time. “I know exactly how taxing it is.” She rose, rubbing her hip as she did. “Every morning, my body makes sure to remind me.”

  “Mine reminds me of all my sins too, and I’ve never been a gymnast or a stunt double.”

  She laughed, and I had to look away—picking a phantom strand of hair off my shirt—just to keep from drooling at her gorgeous smile. We were friends. Nothing more. To keep things simple. But God, the way she laughed . . .

  She shoved her gym bag in her locker and snapped the combo lock into place. “Ready?”

  I locked up my bag and gestured at the door. “After you.”

  She smiled, then headed out of the locker room. I followed, telling myself my racing heart was a result of my preworkout, not the beautiful ass in front of me.

  And damn him, my bodyguard busted me midogle. Our eyes met, and though he pressed his lips together, the amusement in his eyes was unmistakable.

  Fuck you, I mouthed.

  He just flashed a toothy grin—asshole—and followed us toward the weight room.

  On the mats arranged alongside the weight area, opposite the mirrors where the meatheads checked themselves out, Natalya and I both took a few minutes to stretch. Despite our “just friends” agreement, not to mention my bodyguard looming beside us, I didn’t even bother to keep my gaze to myself. A fit woman in yoga pants and a “shirt” that barely qualified as a sports bra? God. She was killing me.

  The worst part was the number of times I thought I caught her glancing at me. Wishful thinking. Had to be. Clearly, she was side-eying someone, or seeing which equipment was occupied, or . . . something. Not grabbing an eyeful of my butt while I touched my toes beside her.

  Totally imagining it. Totally. Imagining. It.

  At least she didn’t catch on to all the things I was imagining, or at least she didn’t mention anything. Once we’d limbered up, we continued into the weight room and took over a couple of benches by the dumbbells. Natalya was working on her back and shoulders today. I was working on biceps and triceps, so basically my arms would be useless tomorrow.

  As we went through our various lifts, moving from the dumbbells to the barbells to the benches and back, I couldn’t help imagining what she’d looked like on the mat back in her competitive days. Gymnasts had always mesmerized me—the Summer Games when I was twelve were one of the first hints that perhaps I wasn’t straight after all—and she still carried herself like one. As she approached the weight bar, dusting a little excess chalk off her hands, she had the straight, shoulders-back stance of a gymnast approaching the mat.

  She started on her deadlifts, and like she must’ve done in her gymnastics days, she made it look easy. Her muscles stood out, a sheen of sweat caught the overhead lights, and her lips tightened at the start of each rep, but none of that touched the surface of the effort it took to pull two hundred–plus pounds of iron up off the floor.

  And I’d thought my hundred fifteen pound deadlifts were something to be proud of.

  After she’d set the bar down again, she gingerly rubbed her lower back.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing. An old injury.”

  “Another one? How do any gymnasts stay alive?”

  Natalya laughed. “This wasn’t from gymnastics. It was stunt work.”

  “You really do like gentle professions, don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “I’d be bored at a desk. I was a gymnast since I was a child, and I wanted to use that experience when I came to America. So I went into stunt work.” She twisted a little, rubbing her back again. “And then this fucking injury ended my career.”

  “Damn. Did you at least go out on a good film?”

  She nodded. “Dawning.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I couldn’t help recalling the scene where the leather-clad protagonist took a swan dive off a sinking ship into debris-littered water. I’d nearly passed out in the theater during that scene. And it was Natalya. Not the actress, Gina Chanel. Natalya. The woman sitting across from me now who I’d slept with and—

  I cleared my throat. “Some of those stunts looked dangerous as hell.”

  “They were fun!” She grinned, but it quickly fell. “The shitty part is I didn’t get hurt doing one of the fun stunts. The scene didn’t even make it into the final film.”

  “Really?”

  Rolling her eyes, she nodded. “They wanted it to be an Oscar contender, so they toned down Gina’s character. Made her . . . not quite such a badass.” Natalya scowled. “It worked. That bitch got an Oscar. All I got was a prescription for painkillers and a new career.”

  I grimaced. “Ouch.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I take it you didn’t like her?”

  Natalya’s derisive snort answered me well enough. She put some more chalk on her hands and positioned herself behind the loaded weight bar again. I watched—hoping no one could tell I was ogling—as she leaned down, gripped the bar, and rose, lifting it off the floor until she was standing straight. She paused for a second, then lowered it to the floor again. After four reps, she set it down, released it, and rubbed her back again.

  “Anyway.” She grimaced subtly. “After that film, I had to retire from stunt work. That’s why I’m just the stunt coordinator now.”

  “‘Just the stunt coordinator’?” I smiled. “You keep my actors and stuntmen from getting killed, and you make the scenes look pretty damned good. I wouldn’t say you’re ‘just’ anything.”

  She laughed quietly, as close to shyly as she was probably capable. “It isn’t the same, though. I miss performing stunts.” She sighed. “But if I want to be walking when I’m fifty, I can’t keep doing that. That’s actually why I lift weights now. If I get out of shape at all, the pain comes back.”

  “Seems almost counterintuitive, doesn’t it?”

  “It is if you talk to my old physical therapist.” She rolled her eyes. “He didn’t want me lifting more than twenty-five pounds, then fifteen pounds, then five pounds. And we were both shocked when the pain just kept getting worse.”

  I nodded. “Levi went through the same thing. He’s been working out religiously since he recovered from his car wreck.”

  “Smart man. No wonder he can still move as well as he does.”

  “Oh come on. He’s not that old.”

  “No, but when he does his own stunts? He’s stronger and more flexible than some of the guys half his age.” She grinned. “Carter’s a lucky man.”

  I laughed and rolled my eyes, trying not to let my discomfort show at the reminder that she was into men as well as women. We were friends, so our differing sexuality didn’t matter.

  If I did let it show, Natalya didn’t seem to notice. Chatting in between sets, we continued lifting. Every time I glanced at her, especially while she was midrep with something heavier than I could lift, I struggled to imagine her actually getting hurt. The odd grimace, or rubbing her back or a joint, didn’t seem like much—maybe an ache or a twinge. Natalya was tough as nails, though. The injuries that took her out of her last two careers must have been horrific—much worse than the aches and pains she had now—to hobble her.

  I envied her that much. I’d never thought of myself as particularly wimpy, but Natalya was the kind of strong I aspired to be.

  Maybe if we kept doing this together, some of it would rub off on me.

  After our workout, Natalya and I strolled back toward the locker room. It wasn’t leg day, so strolling was still possible. My upper body was on fire,
though. Jesus. I really needed to get in here more often.

  Especially if that meant working out with Natalya. I’d already decided just being in the same room with her counted as cardio.

  “You lift heavy,” she said. “Most women I’ve worked out with don’t.”

  “Only way to get results, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “I just wish I had results like yours.” I gestured at her shoulders. “Maybe I need to lift heavier.”

  She stopped, as did Jeremy and I. For a moment, she scrutinized my arms. Then she squeezed my biceps gently and grinned. “You look fine. You don’t want to move up in weight too fast, though.” She released my arm, leaving a cool invisible handprint. “You’ll get hurt.”

  “I know. But I want your—” I bit my tongue before “body” slipped out of my mouth. “Results. I want your results.”

  She gave me a quick down-up and winked. “You’re well on your way.”

  Fresh heat rushed into my cheeks, and I didn’t dare look at my asshole bodyguard who was probably fighting to stop himself from erupting into giggles.

  “Well, I’ll keep following your example.” Why was my mouth suddenly dry?

  “You’re fine.” She waved a hand and kept walking. As I fell into step beside her, she added, “You’re not playing with those stupid Barbie weights”—she nodded sharply toward the light end of the weight racks—“so you’ll be just fine.”

  At the locker-room door, Jeremy and I exchanged glances. He wisely kept his damned mouth shut and instead silently leaned against the wall outside the locker room while I headed back in to get changed.

  Sometimes I wondered how he stayed sane in his line of work, considering he spent half his time waiting for me to come out of a private meeting, a private appointment, or a private locker room. Then again, he had someone to text with these days. I was pretty sure Scott kept him entertained through the monotony of protecting me from nonexistent threats. Well, that, and chuckling over my stupidity with Natalya. That seemed to amuse the bastard to no end.

  In the locker room, we both went straight to the sinks to scrub our hands, since neither of us wore gloves—gloves were for the weak!—and weights were gross. Then it was back to our lockers to change clothes. I fumbled with the combo on my lock, and as I pulled open the door, I turned to say . . . something. But it vanished. Along with my breath, my balance, and my brain.

  Back to me, Natalya peeled off her crop top.

  Jesus. Stop staring. Friends, Anna. Friends. Not . . . God, she is so hot.

  She dropped her shirt and glanced my way. Before I could avert my eyes from her gorgeous breasts, she did a double take and grinned. I was so busted.

  She laughed softly and toed off her shoes.

  I looked around, searching for anything but her to hold my gaze, since I wanted nothing more than to just stare and drool and be completely shameless about how much I wanted her lean, sweaty figure.

  There was no one else here. As it had been when we’d arrived, the locker room was silent. Completely empty except for us.

  I cleared my throat. “Wow. There’s no one in here tonight.”

  “This late?” Natalya pulled a T-shirt from her gym bag and put it on with no bra underneath. “There’s never anyone in here.”

  “Oh. Guess I’ve been coming at the wrong time.” Why did that sound like an innuendo? And why did she look at me like she’d heard the same double entendre that I did? And why was I so damned twitchy and— “I’m going to grab a shower.”

  I snatched my shower kit and started to walk off before I remembered I needed a towel too.

  In a less-than-graceful maneuver, I backtracked, pulled my towel from my gym bag, and then started toward the shower.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  Or rather, who the hell was I kidding? Friends and colleagues and two people who didn’t hate each other . . . great. But what was I supposed to do with all the chemistry I felt when I was in the same room with her? When I looked at her? When I caught a glimpse of her shirtless and wished like hell she would just turn around goddamn it.

  I swore under my breath as I stepped around the corner into the shower area. For a couple of seconds, I stood there—eyes closed as I took slow breaths—and tried to push her from my mind. If something happened in the future, fine. But for now, we were friends because I’d botched the hell out of our attempts at something else. We’d work together. We’d work out together. And maybe, someday, in the future, if I played my cards right . . .

  Keep dreaming, sister.

  Scowling, I leaned against the wall just inside the tiled area and put on my flip-flops. Then I carried my soap and shampoo-plus-conditioner-because-I’m-fucking-lazy bottle into the tiny shower stall.

  The water pressure was nice, and this gym was blessed with awesomely hot water, unlike the last place I’d used. This time, I was tempted to turn it to ice-cold, though.

  I really was losing my mind. No woman had ever made me trip over my own feet like this. There was a time when Leigh had made me smile, when I’d caught my breath whenever she came into a room, but never like this. Leigh never could make me forget how to speak or what I was doing just before she’d showed up. Was I turning into an insatiable horndog or something?

  Or maybe I was still in shock that Natalya and I had landed back on friendly ground after I’d screwed things up so much between us. So it only made sense that I’d have a visceral reaction to being in the same room with her. On some subconscious, lizard-brain level, I was probably still expecting her to snarl at me and—

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Shit!” I jumped out of my skin.

  I spun around as Natalya stepped into the tiny stall with me, her hair still up in a messy ponytail and her beautiful body completely naked.

  “Um.” I swallowed. “No, I—”

  She kissed me.

  Full-on. Openmouthed. Hand in my hair, tongue between my lips, skin against skin.

  We stumbled back a step. Cold tile hit my skin, making me yelp, but it didn’t matter for very long because Natalya’s body was against mine.

  “I can’t resist you,” she murmured. “I know we said . . . friends . . .” She kissed me again. “But I—”

  I claimed her mouth and kissed her hard. I grabbed her hair and held it, but she didn’t let me take control. She forced my lips apart, stole my breath, dug her nails into my hips. Water cascaded over both of us—but not between us—as we made out like nothing had ever happened between that quickie in my office and now. No stupidity. No fighting. Friends? Sort of ex-lovers? Colleagues? Whatever we’d been, or thought we’d been, it all vanished like the water turning to steam on our skin. Whatever we’d tried to be or maybe even succeeded at being for a minute or two here and there, this was what we were right now, and it didn’t need defining as long as it didn’t stop.

  Her warm, wet hand slid between us and over my breast, and she teased my hard nipple with her thumb. The other drifted downward. My thighs parted as if she were controlling them for me. I was fine with that, though. Because now her hand was on my pussy. On my clit. Fingers sliding up inside me. Oh God.

  Pulling in a breath through my nose, I squeezed my thighs together, keeping her hand right where it was, and the subtle movements of her fingertips were just . . . just . . .

  “Oh Jesus . . .”

  Through the dizzying arousal, a single clear thought jolted its way to the front of my mind: I had this beautiful woman in my arms. Why the hell wasn’t I touching her everywhere?

  Easily remedied. I wrapped my arms around her, then followed her lead and ran my hand along her hipbone to the mound of thin hair and down to her pussy. Natalya whimpered but didn’t break the kiss. She leaned into me, pressing me up against the cool wall, and kept right on kissing me as she worked at my clit and I worked at hers. She gripped my wrist, but didn’t try to pull my hand away. I couldn’t tell if she just needed something to hold on to, or if she was making sure I didn�
�t stop.

  With a gasp, she broke the kiss and murmured something in Russian. Rubbing her pussy against my fingers, she moaned softly and buried her face against my neck. Her teeth grazed my skin, and her whole body tensed and trembled. She swore in one language or another, gripping my hand between her powerful thighs just like I gripped hers.

  “God, Natalya . . .”

  Cold panic jolted me—had I just said the wrong name? The woman I’d been fantasizing about instead of—

  No. My fantasy woman was right here with me. Naked. Wet. Teasing me like I teased her.

  “Natalya . . .” Her name made me shiver. I really had her. This wasn’t a fantasy. This was real, and it was awesome. I was with Natalya. Kissing her, circling her clit with my fingers, turning inside out from her fingers doing the same. Hot water still poured over both of us, but it had nothing on the heat of her skin. My upper body was achy with fatigue, and I didn’t care at all as long as my muscles held out just a little longer. Just enough to drive Natalya crazy, and then exhaustion could take over all it wanted. But first I had to make her come. And I had to come. God, with her fingers on me and her lips against mine and—

  “G-gonna come.” I tilted my head back. “Gonna . . .” I couldn’t even remember what to do with my fingers. Natalya released my hand and pushed it out of the way, and I leaned against the wall, arching and gasping as she worked furiously at my pussy and sent me closer, closer, closer—

  “Fuck!” I squeaked. I had just enough presence of mind to clap a hand over my mouth, and I muffled my own cries as I shook and melted and damn near collapsed.

  As my vision cleared, I was met with the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen: Natalya, dripping wet, pupils blown, stringy blonde curls dangling in her eyes.

  My God. She was hot. And she needed to come. Right now.

  I licked my lips and pushed her back against the opposite wall. She hissed, arching off the tiles, then grabbed my hair and kissed me hard, but I only let her have a few seconds before I knelt at her feet.

  As the water beat on my back, Natalya parted her legs, and she braced against the wall before I’d even put my mouth on her. Good. Because once I started, I had no intention of stopping.