Berlin. August 3. 1:47PM. ‘Your coat, Herr Shimada.’ An instinctual, irrepressible, ever so slight lick of her lips accompanied the lingering glid... of the executive secretary’s hands over Trent Shimada’s coat shoulders. Through the fabric, he perceived the soft yet unmistakably deliberate tracing of her fingertips over the steely contours of his triceps. In the midst of this bustling lunchtime bistro, filled with bland-suited management types talking financial bourses over bratwurst, the. ‘Think about working upper body today. Your legs look like they need a break.’ ‘That’s the plan,’ I muttered, making a beeline for the locker rooms. I threw my belongings into one of the familiar gray lockers and made my way to the weights. I pushed and pulled for hours, sweat stinging my eyes and soaking my clothes. I needed it. The physical exhaustion was what my body craved ever since the fight with David. My emotions were pent up in my muscles, in my very joints and tissues, waiting to be. More

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