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Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone.

It was unprofessional.

And simply wrong, and dangerous, and maybe even somewhat creepy.

But mostly unprofessional.

Because an S.O.-rookie relationship should be based on mutual trust and respect, and not… this. Definitely not this.

"Pull ups. Ten sets. Go," Ward said through clenched teeth and with a tight throat, as he mentally cursed himself, the female form, meddling teammates, maddening rookies, and the whole universe. But mostly himself.

Skye grumbled and muttered something under her breath, but diligently went to the rod affixed to the bottom of the catwalk and stretched to reach it. In the process, her shirt lifted, revealing just the right amount of silky soft, tanned, inviting skin, with just a hint of the most alluring belly button he'd ever seen.

He went through his mental cursing check-list once again: himself, the female form, meddling teammates, maddening rookies, the whole universe, and mostly himself. On a second thought, he added alluring belly buttons to the list, too.

Belly buttons that were just made to be taking body shots from. Shots of something exotic and fiery just like her, maybe spiced rum. It would drip on her, and he'd lick it all up, swirling the tip of his tongue in her…

Nope. He was not going there.

"One," he counted instead, in his very stern, very confident, very I'm not doing dirty things to you in my mind right now voice. She grunted (she grunted. Or moaned. Damn, she moaned) and pulled herself up. Just a bit. Just enough for her breasts to get to eye level.

He blinked. And hoped she didn't notice it.

"Two."

There again. Her shirt was loose, but still—her breasts were right there, within reach. Her beautiful, perky, round breasts. Not too big—perfectly palm-sized.

He swallowed.

"Three."

He would be lying if he said he'd never imagined palming them. Because he did. Ever since that first interrogation in the Cage, about every second or third of his awake thoughts revolved around her breasts and butt and hips and hair and lips, oh, her lips…

(He started his mantra again: himself, the female form, meddling teammates, maddening rookies, the whole universe, and mostly himself. And belly buttons. And perky, perfectly palm-sized breasts, obviously.)

"Four."

Why did she have to wear the baggy shirt, anyway? (Why did she have to wear baggy shirts at all?) Why couldn't she work out in a sports bra? And leggings? A pair of thin, tight, tiny leggings. Like those volleyball uniforms.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, because he just had to… do something with them. Crossing them seemed like the most innocent choice.

"Five."

Or better yet, she could work out naked. Hey, it worked out well for the ancient Romans! It would be convenient, after all—no clothes to wash. And, thinking about it, she could jump rope a bit. For cardio. Naked. And then her breasts would…

"Six," he inhaled sharply, rather proud of himself for remembering to count. (Himself, the female form, meddling teammates, maddening rookies, the whole universe, alluring belly buttons, perky breasts, and mostly himself.)

And—his filthy, unfiltered mind added without his permission—maybe they could even take the whole session to his bed. Or hers. He wasn't picky.

He fought back a groan. He simultaneously wanted to punch himself and devour her.

Yep, it was definitely wrong, and dangerous, and downright creepy, and unprofessional.

But mostly unprofessional.