Off Limits Read Online Free PDF Page B

circle, but up and down, side-to-side, like she’s rolling across the top of an exercise ball, but in a seat.
    “Looking to flatten your stomach, define your abs and tighten your rear? Well, your ass isn’t going to tone itself just from sitting on it!”
    “That’s Suzie’s saying too,” I murmur, and ignore the sideways, startled How did you know that glance from Max.
    Let’s pretend I’m not that familiar with Suzie Steel’s workout videos, shall we?
    On the screen, the camera spins around the model so we can watch her tiny butt rotate that chair from every angle.
    “Our all new patented technology lets you perfect your problem areas, ladies.” The voiceover woman really does sound like Suzie. Complete with overly peppy intonations and her gruff, low voice, a strange yet oddly effective combo for making me stick with my shabby workout routine. “Just take a seat, crank the resistance setting up as high as you want—” There’s a brief pause as the model elaborately mimes turning a dial on the side of the chair— “Then rub it out.”
    Cheesy music floats through the background as the girl on-screen mimes gritting her teeth and grinding her ass even harder around the chair. Not going to lie, it looks like she’s having the most painful orgasm of her life. I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from cracking up.
    One sideways glance at Max tells me he’s having the same problem—and he’s even worse at disguising it. He’s just straight up silent-laughing, his shoulders shaking as he watches the video roll on.
    “Say it with me ladies—Rub it out!” A whole chorus of scantily-dressed girls in Rotator chairs repeat the slogan this time, beaming despite the fact that they’re supposed to be getting the tough workout of their lives.
    The video cuts to sales and ordering information— “Just ten easy payments of $9.99 when you call now!” —and I trade bemused looks with Max.
    “Just when you thought that phrase couldn’t sound any dirtier,” he says with a smirk, “they get a whole chorus line to recite it.”
    “Plus they’re trying to market this to women, right? You’d think they’d have a bunch of guys half-naked on the video instead.”
    His dark green eyes latch onto mine, suddenly intense. But after a moment, all he comes out with is, “So the ice queen has a type after all,” and an infuriating smirk.
    I roll my eyes. “Oh yes, meatheads really do it for me.”
    “No? Well, figures you’d be more into the intellectual types.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” I mutter, even though he’s right.
    “Nothing. Just that you probably prefer your hookups have a strong muscle between their ears, too. Which I can respect.”
    “Why? It rules you out.” I side-eye him.
    He smirks. “You know, I’m not who you think I am, Chloe.”
    “So you’re not the toned, skimpily dressed swimsuit model type?” I reply, jerking my thumb toward the screen, where the video has begun to automatically replay, the girls’ chests bouncing as they run through their rotating chair workout routine.
    “I didn’t say that . Just that I prefer an intelligent, toned, skimpily dressed swimsuit model type.” He winks.
    “You claim you aren’t who I think you are, and yet that’s your type?”
    “I have a lot of types.”
    “What’s your favorite, then?” Shit, I immediately think, the moment the words are out of my mouth. Why did I just ask him that?
    He pauses for a moment, humming softly as though he’s pondering the question. “Bitchy,” he finally says, and my whole face floods with heat.
    I narrow my eyes. “Are you calling me a bitch?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize my mistake, and I wish I could clap them right back in.
    He leans a little closer to me—and we were already too close as it was—bending over his small tablet screen. I can feel his breath ghost across my cheek. At this distance, I can count his eyelashes, smell mint on his breath, notice