Read Behind His Back for Free Online Page A

work every day, and it probably adds up to about an hour.
    Why did I have to insult the one person who can spy on my web history?
    I’m distracted from my fears when I see a patent-leather getup in one of the homepage’s rotator slides. It’s called the romp suit, and it must be a new addition, because I’d remember something like this. It’s nothing more than an amalgam of thin leather straps, starting from a collar around the model’s neck, crisscrossing around her tits without covering them, and then connecting in another criss-cross right above her crotch. Every fuckable part of the model is exposed, which means this is now porn. I’m looking at porn at work.
    I stare at the romp suit and wonder whether I could pull it off. I’d certainly do better than their mop handle of a model, who has the chest of a thirteen-year-old boy and no discernible ass. There was a time when impossibly skinny models intimidated me and made me feel bad about myself. It’s funny how adding a little muscle tone changes all of that. Now I just feel sorry for them because they’re weak. I could fuck her with a strap-on and crack her pelvis in half.
    But confidence aside, everything I’ve bought from Fräulein has been soft and lacy—still skimpy and hot and imminently peel-off-able, but certainly nothing as edgy as the romp suit. David’s dick would probably retract into his groin like a threatened gopher if he saw me in that. And for some reason, something about the thought of scaring my husband with my leather-bound body turns me on.
    This is not my depraved, slutty subconscious.
    Narrowing in on the model’s tiny, puckered nipples, I think about all the times I’ve come close to watching porn at work over the past year. I’ve read that some men do it regularly, and I decide to figure out their secrets for hiding it. Now that I’ve crossed that bridge and had a naked woman on my screen, I’m ready for the next level.

Chapter 4
    I ’m at Rev at 6 a.m. on a Friday, and I’m eager to hoist some heavy weights and get my heart racing. Today’s workout is already up on the whiteboard, and it’s full of front barbell squats and pull-ups. They’re two of my favorite exercises, and they’re not on the curriculum in health-club Zumba classes or public-park bootcamps. I’m so lucky that I’ve found something that actually works, even if it’s turned me into a raving nympho.
    I decide to practice some skipping for my warmup, and as I’m grabbing one of the speed ropes off of the wall, a tall, tanned man with dark hair and eyes strides into the gym wearing tight jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. He grabs a sixteen-kilo kettlebell and then uses it to prop the door open so he can finagle two long, black canvas bags through it. Chad immediately dashes over to help him.
    Based on the V-neck alone, I’d peg him as one of the annoying hipsters who congregate in our neighborhood, but when he thanks Chad with a bro-ish handclasp, an immaculately round bicep pops out from his tiny sleeve. I follow it down to forearm muscles that writhe like a pit of snakes under his tight skin, and suddenly I can’t look away. He can’t be a hipster. Hipsters don’t work out, and any man with that kind of forearm definition definitely knows his way around a gym.
    I’m still standing with the rope in my hand and my jaw on the floor when an equally tanned girl with dark hair that’s maddeningly long and straight trots through the door. She’s dragging what looks like a beaten-up roadie crate. She wheels it over to where Mr. Twitchy Forearms is opening the canvas bags and setting up black umbrellas on stands.
    Duh. He’s a photographer. I work at a magazine—it shouldn’t have taken me that long to solve the mystery.
    The tanned girl—his assistant, I assume—is wearing tight, hopefully stretchy jeans and a clingy camisole that showcases her big tits and tiny waist, and she says something in a squeaky voice that makes Mr. Twitchy Forearms laugh. I