Fit for Love

4. Ashton

Chapter 4

Ashton

Fucking fuck. Finding a client attractive is bad. Getting hard for a client is infinitely worse.

The problem is, knowing something is bad for me doesn’t change anything, especially when it comes to my dick. Since meeting Kendall, I’ve gotten hard at the slightest provocation—like when I pictured her spreading her legs on that machine. And I’m hard now, with this much tamer exercise. I find every detail of her movements erotic. Even the way she holds the metal bar of the functional trainer makes me think “stripper pole.” It doesn’t help that the muscles involved with this exercise include the gluteus medius and minimus , which are located in her tight, round ass.

Oh, and did I mention I’m wearing shorts? Stupid. Had I known what would be in store for me, I would’ve worn my bulkiest cargo pants, and maybe the cup that I use during sparring.

Speaking of sparring, since Kendall’s back is turned to me, I get my phone out and shoot Marcus a text, warning him I might not be able to make it to our session.

When I look up from my phone, Kendall is done with her exercise and glaring at my hands. “Am I boring you?”

I put my phone away and grin at her. “I thought you didn’t want my help.”

“Yeah, well, now that you’ve forced said help on me, you might as well act professional.”

Me, unprofessional?

I grit my teeth, then tell myself not to engage. She’s clearly baiting me. “Your form was perfect throughout, so I doubt I missed anything by not monitoring the last few reps.”

My phone dings in my pocket.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you going to check that?”

“No.” I bet it’s a reply from Marcus. “I can do it after.”

“Is that any way to treat your girlfriend?” she asks, and flushes immediately.

Interesting.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” I give her a mocking smile when her flush deepens. “What about your boyfriend? How does he feel about you asking other guys about their relationship status?”

Her pretty lips purse together. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Men are dogs.”

“Surely not all men?”

Did some asshole make her feel this way?

If he were here, I’d round-kick him in the jaw.

“Fine, most men are dogs,” she concedes. “A rare few, like my dad, aren’t.”

It must be nice to say that about one’s dad. “Thank you,” I say smoothly, pushing the thought away.

She snorts. “Oh, ‘most’ absolutely includes you .”

I give her a level look. “As a dog parent, I don’t actually consider that an insult. Dogs are famous for their loyalty.”

“Dogs hump everything,” she says pointedly.

“When I commit to a woman, I don’t even look at anyone—or anything—else.”

I have no idea why I just told her that, even though it’s the absolute truth.

She doesn’t look like she believes me. “Oh, really? Will you offer up a bridge for me to buy as well? Sign me up for a multi-level marketing scheme?”

Scratch that. I do know why I told her that. I’m dying to fuck her, and she doesn’t look like the type to indulge in a one-night stand. The only way into her pants is for her to see me as a dating prospect. Not that I date clients. Then again…

“On a completely unrelated note,” I say casually. “Am I right in assuming you don’t want me as your trainer?”

She nods. “Today’s session was a gift. I can’t afford this gym or the services of a trainer—but if I could, I wouldn’t hire you .”

I clutch my chest theatrically. “That was a low blow.”

“Hey, some people might want an overbearing know-it-all for a trainer, but I sure don’t.”

Hmm. “If your session was a gift, I should point out that this place doesn’t do refunds.”

“So?”

“So maybe you should let me teach you some exercises that you can do at home. That way, you can get your endorphins for free.”

This is actually a long-term goal of mine: to bring fitness to people who can’t afford me. But in the short term, I’d be satisfied if I could optimally help the select few who can afford me. An app would be really useful to that end. My clients travel a lot, and simple videoconferencing has too many limitations.

She eyes me dubiously. “Can you do it without bossing me around?”

“Sure.”

Because I’ll teach her bodyweight exercises where she’s as likely to get hurt as when getting out of bed.

Fuck. Thinking of beds in her vicinity is not good for my equilibrium. As I begin to demonstrate the different variations of planks, things only get harder from there—pun intended. I’ve never realized how much certain exercises resemble sexual positions. Especially knee planks, both with straight and bent arms. But the worst is probably the reverse plank because of how it pushes up her small, perky breasts.

The torture of my dick continues during pushups and persists all the way through to lunges and squats.

“That’s it,” she says after a second set of squats. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Usually, I’d chastise a client for wanting to give up so quickly, but Kendall isn’t my client. Not to mention, I don’t think I could watch her thrust out her booty in another rep without my balls bursting into a blue cloud.

“All right,” I say as professionally as I can. “You did really well, and if you do what I’ve showed you regularly, you’ll get all the endorphins you need—plus your bones and muscles will be stronger than ever.”

“Right. Well… thanks.” She swipes the back of her hand over her glistening forehead. “This wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be.”

“You’re welcome.” I debate if I should ask her for her number or provide mine, but I don’t think she’s ready for that yet.

No. A more Machiavellian approach is needed.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Kendall,” I say with exaggerated politeness. “I wish you luck with all your future endeavors.”

The only thing that gives me the strength to walk away from her and back to the men’s locker room is the knowledge that, unbeknownst to her, we’ll be meeting again shortly.

I’m changing quickly when I get a call from Marcus, who sounds annoyed that I didn’t reply to his last text.

“I was with a client,” I say. “Sorry about canceling. I’ll have to kick your ass some other time.”

And I truly am sorry. Despite his riches, Marcus takes little joy in life, so sparring with me is probably the highlight of his week.

“How about we see whose ass gets kicked tomorrow afternoon?” Marcus says. “Assuming that fits into your oh-so-busy schedule.”

“Tomorrow works. But are you really giving me shit about the one time I have a work conflict? You do this to me all the fucking time.”

“It’s happened three times,” Marcus retorts. “And once, you only thought we had a session, but we did not.”

He’s keeping score? Why am I not surprised? Attention to detail is one of the many skills that have helped my friend score billions of rich people’s money to manage in his fund.

“Fine. You’ve canceled three times, and I’ve only done it once,” I say. “So I can move two more sessions before you have the right to?—”

Fucker. He hung up on me. But hey, in the time it took to have that conversation, he probably missed a chance to make a few million. So I guess we’re even.

Not for the first time, I wonder what it would be like if I were as rich as my parents have always pushed me to be. On the one hand, I could hire a Mexican food truck to follow me around all day, so I could get tacos whenever I want. But then my parents would learn about my success and be all “see, we told you to do that,” and that would suck ass. I know they wish for a son who’s more like Marcus. Unfortunately, they have me.

Maybe if they’d been no-good alcoholics like Marcus’s mom, I would’ve had some of his ambition. Then again?—

Shit. Kendall. I have to hurry.

Tying my laces, I make my way outside and wait for my quarry to appear.