Barbells at Christmas

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Barbells at Christmas

  ISBN #978-1-907280-59-7

  ©Copyright Heather Howard 2009

  Cover Art by April Martinez ©Copyright December 2009

  Edited by Jess Bimberg

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2009 by Total-E-Bound Publishing 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road

  , Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.

  Christmas Crackers

  BARBELLS AT CHRISTMAS

  Heather Howard

  Dedication

  For my husband,

  the greatest hero the world has ever known.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Honda Civic: American Honda Motor Company, Inc.

  Charmin: Proctor & Gamble

  Formica: Formica Corporation

  Bailey’s: R & A Bailey’s & Company

  Adidas: adidas

  Starbucks: Starbucks Corporation

  Chapter One

  Lisa Weller was not pathetic. She knew this because she told herself so, and lying to oneself would just be silly, so therefore she must be telling the truth. It was absolutely not pathetic that she was sitting in her freezing cold Honda Civic at eleven p.m. on Christmas Eve, dressed in her gym wear and staring at the double doors leading into her local 24/7 Fitness.

  Surely lots of people worked out on Christmas Eve! People who wanted to give themselves the gift of rockin’ abs, or pull a hundred kilos before the year was up. People wanting to stave off that holiday fat. People who were Jewish, or Muslim, or Buddhist or Hindu or nothing at all!

  Or maybe, she thought, looking at the only other two cars in the parking lot, people whose crazy mother got drunk and flew to Bolivia for a plate of frog legs from Lake Titicaca and whose father is too busy with his other family to bother calling and whose boyfriend dumped them yesterday so he could spend Christmas in Chicago with that cute blonde from accounting. Not that she was bitter. She hoped Rick and Shirley were very happy together. Maybe they’d eat mustard-slathered hot dogs and go to a museum and take a romantic walk along Lake Michigan, and maybe they’d fall in and drown.

  She’d even send flowers to the funeral. That’s how magnanimous and un-pathetic she was. A spirit too great and generous to be broken by Rick’s stupid wandering hands and roving eye, and he had a tiny dick anyway, so there.

  Now that the pool of potential Christmas Eve gym rats had dwindled to pretty much just her, Lisa allowed herself to slump forward and bang her head on the steering wheel a couple of times. Just how little dignity did one have to have to even show up at the gym at this time of night on Christmas Eve? Apparently she’d hit the threshold because a few seconds later, she heaved a sigh, wrenched at the car door handle, and popped out into the freezing night air.

  The cold hit her in the face like a slap, but riding on the air was the scent of the smoke from burning hearth fires. The soft, delicious smell curled gently in her head. The contrast between the sharp night and the languid smoke seemed cruel, because it was the smell of someone, somewhere, having a cosy, loving yuletide night. Her heart ached.

  Gritting her teeth, Lisa hauled her gym bag over her shoulder and slammed the car door, the echo in the mostly empty lot driving home just how sad it was that she was here. Lips drawn down into a miserable frown, she stalked across the dark pavement, the icy air worming its way into her clothes, and she jogged the last few steps and pulled the door open.

  Inside the gym, it was warm and empty, and someone had made a half-hearted attempt to decorate the place for the season. There was a garland strung across the front desk, and here and there around the cardio room, bedraggled mistletoe hung from the ceiling. As if anyone drenched in sweat from a five-mile run really wanted to start sucking face. The place stank, as always, of old perspiration, dirt, and industrial cleaner.

  The desk was unmanned. Lisa was grateful for that fact because the last thing she wanted was anyone witnessing her holiday humiliation. She pulled out her card--it had gotten a lot of use lately as her relationship with Rick had headed south--and scanned it in herself before heading back to the locker rooms. She didn’t even bother putting a lock on the locker she’d chosen. It wasn’t like there was anyone else here anyway, except for the missing employees. She threw her keys in the bottom of the locker and pulled her water, her towel, and her chalk out of the bag. She was here for some serious work, and maybe by the end, she’d be too tired to think about her mother, her father, or Rick.

  The gym was still empty as she headed for a treadmill to warm up. Not that she’d expected to see anyone come in, but the deserted atmosphere was a little creepy. Maybe the ghost of Christmas Past would show up and tell her everywhere she’d gone wrong in love to end up here and now. Maybe he’d be hot.

  Lisa shook her head. Best to put those thoughts to rest right now, or she’d just go to bed frustrated.

  She hopped on a treadmill, stuffed her belongings in one of the cup holders, and cranked the speed up to six miles per hour. Just a quick little run to get her started, pump the old endorphins and take the edge off her misery. Fool-proof plan.

  Four minutes later, Lisa wanted to shoot herself. She’d forgotten just how much she hated to run on a treadmill.

  Sweat beaded her brow as she stared at the red numbers dancing in front of her. Just one more minute and she could get to her weightlifting. Just one more minute. Well, fifty-five seconds, now.

  Fifty seconds.

  Forty-five seconds.

  Forty seconds.

  Thirty-five seconds.

  All I want for Christmas, Lisa thought as the numbers counted down, is a cardio programme that doesn’t make me want to die of boredom.

  Finally the numbers hit five minutes and Lisa slapped the stop button, more grateful than she cared to admit. It was a goddamn Christmas miracle. She grabbed her towel, scowled at its grubbiness, and mopped her brow.

  Just as she finished wiping away the sweat, there was a movement at the corner of her eye. Still catching her breath, Lisa looked up, beheld the most perfect ass she’d ever seen climbing onto the treadmill in front of her, and forgot all about breathing.

  She’d seen good butts before, but this one was…well. It was perfect. Round and juicy, like two peaches cuddling. Back when she’d been in college she’d taken an intro to philosophy class and they’d learnt about Platonic forms, the perfect instances of things and ideas from which all other things were derived. The form of the good. The form of the apple. The form of the chair.

  This ass. It was the Form of the As
s. All other asses were but pale copies, mere shadows of Its glory. If Plato had talked about butts instead of virtues, well, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen asleep so often in that class and ended up with a C.

  She wanted to bite it.

  Her lungs prodded her, reminding her that while she might not think breathing in the presence of the Greatest Butt Known To Man (Or Woman) was necessary, they certainly didn’t agree. She wheezed, and the object of her sudden lust turned around.

  For an insane moment, she thought she had summoned a smoking hot apparition of Christmas Past, but after a second she realised the Ghost of Christmas Past probably didn’t wear a 24/7 Fitness employee’s baseball cap. Everything else, though, was straight off of Lisa’s personal wish list. He was Latino, and his rich, sun-kissed skin, hint of a five-o’clock shadow, and wild black hair, the unruly curls peeking out from underneath his hat, gave him a rugged look, as if he just climbed down a mountain. He wore a form-fitting gym shirt in red, the long sleeves hugging and hinting at the ripped physique underneath, and each rock-hard swell of muscle made her fingers twitch. She wanted to squeeze him like a roll of Charmin. His well-formed back narrowed into a trim, hard waist before his body flared into that glorious butt encased in loose black nylon wind pants. He wore a pair of black and red sneakers, well-worn but also clearly cared for.

  Lisa swallowed hard. She knew she was staring. She would stop. Any second now.

  His dark eyes, the colour of rich hot chocolate, crinkled at her as he gave her a quirky half-smile. His teeth were bright white and that devilish smile made her cheeks flare, and she was suddenly weak at the knees as a flood of heat surged straight from her brain, down her spine to her clit, as if her pussy were hardwired to his grin. She hadn’t felt such a swell of need since she was a teenager. She suddenly felt heavy and full, though the top of her head seemed as if it were going to unscrew and float away. Her mouth was going dry. She hoped it wasn’t because she was drooling.

  Smile back at him, stupid! the tiny part of her brain not focused on her suddenly aching groin shouted at her. Desperately she forced her lips to move, twitching until they peeled back into a rictus of want, which would have been embarrassing if it hadn’t taken too long for her to get her face in gear and he hadn’t already turned back around. Oh god, she couldn’t even get a smile right. No wonder she was alone on Christmas Eve. Her face burnt as she grabbed her things from the cup holder and hobbled off the treadmill, her desire making each rub of her thighs a delicious agony.

  He must be one of the personal trainers, she thought inanely as she staggered across the basketball floor to the free-weight area, although she’d never seen him before. Maybe he took midday shifts. She was an early-morning, late-night gym rat. And she wasn’t about to start going midday, even if she wanted to convert to the Cult of The Glorious Ass and worship at Its beautiful, buoyant altar, because she had already embarrassed herself too much. She prayed he wasn’t watching her weave across the full-court floor like a drunken sailor.

  “O-kay,” she muttered. “Time to get a grip.” Grip. Squeeze. Don’t go there.

  Lisa came to a halt in front of the squat rack. Someone had tied ratty, red velvet bows onto it. She almost laughed, it was so absurd.

  Forcing herself to focus, she adjusted the bar and the safeties. Stretching her hip flexors, she took a few deep breaths and tried to concentrate. She wished it weren’t so damn warm in here. She needed some cold air right now to clear her head. She’d been doing powerlifts for almost a year now, and while her form was excellent and she thought she could do squats in her sleep, it was never good to be distracted. Injury could sneak up on you. Just like lust, she supposed.

  She positioned herself under the bar for a few quick warm-up reps. With practiced ease, she lifted it from its pins, backed up, set her stance, and started the smooth descent.

  Unbidden, she suddenly envisioned him laying there, he of the exalted butt, between her legs, naked and wanton, his full lips parted, his crinkly eyes half-closed, and as she lowered herself past parallel, she imagined his long, thick cock pushing past her swollen lips, sliding inside her, parting her body, hot and tight and slick and--

  The bar clanged against the safeties like a church bell. She forced herself to clench her own less exalted butt and raise herself to a full standing position, though her knees were trembling. Maybe I should just go home, she thought, but immediately she knew she’d just crawl into bed and play with her own lonely self until she fell asleep unsatisfied, and somehow that seemed even more pathetic than being here at the gym at—she checked the clock--eleven fifteen on Christmas Eve.

  Just concentrate, she thought. Think of dead puppies or something!

  It didn’t work. With each squat, she could almost feel him impaling her, could feel each ridge and vein of his dick sliding in and out, the mess of curls at the base rubbing over her pulsing clit. By the time she was on her last set, she was gasping for air, and it wasn’t because of the two twenty-kilo plates at either end of the bar. She hoped there wasn’t a wet patch between her legs on her grey sweatpants. Why hadn’t she worn black?

  Because you didn’t expect to be so turned on you wanted to straddle one of those bouncy Swiss balls and go to town, she thought. She got into position for her final set, took a deep breath and looked in the mirror.

  He was halfway across the weight room, staring at her. Not at her eyes. At her ass.

  Her nipples perked up even as her legs wavered. This was too dangerous, even if she did want to do her final set so he could watch her go up and down, up and down.

  Just duck out from under the bar, she told herself, and if her ass wiggled a little more than necessary, well, she surely couldn’t be blamed.

  She also wouldn’t think of stretching a little, just to show off.

  In the mirror, his eyes travelled up her straining body until they met hers. Almost immediately, he looked away.

  Please come over here and fuck me, she thought. I’ve been ever so good this year.

  But he was setting up his bar for some military presses. Their eyes met in the mirror again, and this time, it was she who looked away, not least because she didn’t want to scare him off.

  Lisa prodded her brain for her next lift, sluggishly trying to remember her routine. Bench press, wasn’t it? Thank god. There was nothing suggestive about bench press, right?

  She lay down on the nearest bench and immediately wished she hadn’t. All the blood was in her pelvis, and when she put her feet on the bench and thrust her hips into the air to set her arch, she almost moaned aloud.

  Damn, she thought.

  She closed her eyes and lifted the bar. All she needed to do was concentrate on her form. In one smooth, unhurried movement, she lowered the bar to her chest, just below her aching breasts, then lifted it again. A few more times and she was done with her warm ups. She got up and loaded the bar for her first set. Another bone-melting hip-thrust, and she was ready.

  Taking a deep breath, Lisa told herself to concentrate on her form. Form was all. She closed her eyes.

  Form, she told herself. Form, form, form, form—

  “Need a spot?”

  Chapter Two

  Lisa’s eyes flew open and the bar dropped like a stone.

  Two hands brushed against her breasts and she almost exploded as her trainer in shining nylon windpants caught the bar and raised it to the pins.

  “Apologies,” he said, his upside down face hovering above her own. “I did not mean to startle you.”

  “Hurblegurg,” Lisa said, then kicked herself. She coughed. “No problem,” she squeaked. Normally she’d tell any man bothering her during her workout, hovering and being helpful, to go blow it out his ass, but this was different. She wanted to sleep with him. Pride? What pride? “I do need a spot, thank you.”

  His slender, beautiful hands floated just under the bar. Lisa swallowed and did a rep, then did another. Each time those hands got close to her breasts, she thought she would blow a gasket, but
they didn’t touch her again. When she was done with the set, she hopped to her feet almost immediately.

  “Thank you,” she babbled. “Um. Thank you.”

  He was watching her intently. She resisted the urge--rather admirably, she thought--to hop on his shoulders, hug his head with her thighs, and ride his tongue to kingdom come. She felt her eyes unfocus as she began to follow this line of thinking to its natural conclusion.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” he said suddenly, jerking her out of her fantasy-induced trance, and stuck out a hand. “I’m Angel. Angel Marino.”

  “Of course you are,” Lisa replied, then her brain caught up with her mouth. “And I said that out loud.”

  He smiled. “You sure did.” He was still holding his hand out. Lisa stared at it like it was an alien object that she’d never seen before. She knew if she shook his hand she was going to just grab on and yank him towards her and latch onto his ear like a lamprey. Oh god, his ears. Perfect shells, with small, plump earlobes and she was going to gnaw on them, just chomp away while she rubbed her swollen nipples against his chest until she came or got arrested, whichever happened first. With how much she wanted him, she wouldn’t be surprised if she beat the police at least twice over. You’ll never take me alive, coppers!

  She realised she’d been staring again when his smile widened and he reached out with his left hand, grabbed her right wrist, and drew it between them. His warm palm squeezed against hers, and it was rough and calloused and…yes, please.

  “Nice to meet you,” he repeated, then tilted his head forward, indicating that she tell him her name.

  “Lisa,” she managed. Her hand was shaking. She forced herself to clench it around his, and her pussy throbbed in tandem. This was simultaneously the best and worst handshake ever.