Free Tied Up and Twisted by Alison Tyler Page A

standard intakes, I run the prospective athletes through a rigorous questioning session,” Frost explains.
    “Define ‘rigorous.’”
    He looks hard at her again. It’s obvious to both of them that there’s a connection. Yet neither one seems willing to make the first move. “You’re the writer.” He’s mock deferential.
    She thinks, Touché, but moves on. “How long have you been at the gym?”
    “Seventeen years.”
    “That’s a long time.”
    “Depends on how long you’ve got,” he says matter-of-factly.
    “How long have you got?” she asks, and she wishes he could see inside her mind. Every time she looks at him, she visualizes what he’d be like in bed. If they were at a bar, she’d slide her leg against his under the table and let him wonder whether the brush of her skin against his was accidental or on purpose. Right when he decides the move was accidental, she’d do it again. If they were at her favorite club in the city, she’d set up a scenario that would make his cock hard in a second.
    She hasn’t had a man in seven months.
    That’s the longest she’s ever gone without.
    She has no idea that Frost has been solo for seven years.
    In another circumstance, Hadley would come clean with him. She’d lean in close and whisper that she doesn’t believe in love at first sight or instant karma or screwing on a first date. But if he would come to her apartment tonight, she’d let him tie her to her four-poster bed and whip her.
    In her scenario, there are too many ifs.
    “We need you in the gym,” Guy says, coming up from behind Frost. He speaks the words quietly, rather than bursting out screaming the way he wants to. He is having an inner tantrum that feels like a ball of fire in his throat, but what he says is simply: “I’ll take over.” He looks at Hadley, who sighs when she sees Guy. He’s a pretty boy who knows exactly how pretty he is. Chiseled cheekbones, dimpled chin, jaw you could use for a ruler. He might have stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad instead of stepping out of her past.
    She wants to tell him that pretty doesn’t work for her. Not anymore. She knows exactly where she stands. She is thirty-three. She weighs 117 pounds. She never lies and says she’s thirty. She never fibs and says she’s 115. But she guesses that if someone asked this dark-haired Adonis his weight or his age, some part of the truth would be shaved off the top. He dyes his hair to achieve those chestnut highlights. She’s certain.
    Frost leaves. The fact that he doesn’t turn around to say goodbye is one more point in his pro column. She’s hooked—and fucked—and she knows it.
    “How can I help you, Hadley?” Guy asks her as he takes Frost’s seat.
    “You can’t.”
    Guy follows her eyes, sees she’s staring after Frost and sneers, “He’s not your type.”
    “What do you know about my type?”
    “More than you think I should. More than I’d like to.” This interaction is not going the way Guy hoped it would.
    “You don’t know anything about me, Guy.” That’s not entirely true, so she adds resignedly, “Not anymore.”
    “I know what your pussy tastes like.” He can’t help himself. Maybe if he pushes her buttons, she’ll give him what he needs. He’s got a rise out of her in the past. He knows how to make her react.
    People turn to look at them. Hadley feels their eyes and wonders if they can sense the distaste she has for Guy.
    “So do a lot of men.”
    “You say that like you’re proud.”
    She stands and looks down at him. “And you say you know what my pussy tastes like as if you know your way around a girl’s clit.”
    * * *
    She ought to have anticipated this. When her editor had assigned her to cover the gym, she should have asked who’d suggested the story in the first place. But her mind had been on finding a new apartment, reestablishing old work ties, digging into her storage facility for the nuts and bolts of her old life. She’d moved out of