Is there a yummier sight than that of a tank topped Jane Rizzoli bench pressing one and a half times her weight?
Maura doesn't think so. She's supposed to be training hard on the elliptical, but the view is too distracting. Even from her distance a few feet away, she can see the beads of sweat gathering on the tanned skin. She wonders idly what it would be like to taste it. In general, perspiration has a salty tinge to the flavour, but her hypothesis is that where her lovers have told her she tastes like vanilla, Jane tastes like lavender.
A passing cop accidentally brushes her shoulder and it pulls her from her shameless ogling. She casts a quick glance around the room to ensure that no one has noticed her staring at the mouthwatering, model-like figure. Her eyes turn hard when she realizes that everyone's too busy openly appreciating the flex of Jane's exquisite brachioradialis, extensor muscles, and forearm flexors. God, and those deltoids and triceps...
She snaps her jaw closed when she discovers its slackened at the visual. The genius in her is telling her that she needs to put a firm end to these joint excursions to the gym, but the woman in her has her fingers in her ears, singing 'La la la la la' at the top of her lungs.
She watches as Jane places the bar back in the holder with a final exertion of effort. The detective rests a moment, flexing her arms almost unconsciously at the new lack of resistance in them. When she sits up, her eyes immediately focus on Maura and she grins triumphantly at the doctor. Maura returns the smile happily and wanders over.
"Like what you see, Doc?" Jane jokes, already chuckling.
"Oh, you have no idea."