Hot pursuit.

“You don’t even want to know what it is?” she asks with a wry smile, raising one eyebrow. “Bold.”

“Or stupid. Or both,” you tell her while nodding sagely.

“Okay, how about this: so we don’t have any of that wishy-washy, awkward shit we’d be doing over a table, just catch me.”

“Catch … you?”

“Yeah. I start running. You chase. Bring me down, we just do whatever you want.” At that, she stands up straight again, a little closer to you than you realized. “Wherever you want, whenever you want. Interested?” The extreme tightness of these usually baggy exercise shorts suggests “yes.”

“How literally am I bringing you down?”

“Surprise me.”

“Okay. And if you get away?”

“Well, you don’t have my number, so it’ll just be your loss, eh?” The smile she has is as malicious as it is provocative. She wants you to catch her. But she isn’t going to take it easy on you. “Nah, we do whatever I want. IF I make it to the gate at the south end before you get me. Deal?”

“Absolutely.” While you feel like you’re going to win either way, the burning, lusty core of you that woke up again this morning really, really wants to catch her. Partially so you can do whatever nasty shit you want to the alluring kiwi, but also just to show her you can.

“Oh, good. One more thing? We’re starting now.” It’s a dirty trick, but by the time the prowling hunter in your brain is finished luxuriating in the thoughts of pouncing on her, she’s already rounding the curve ahead. Fuck, that lady can move!