Chapter 3
Teddy
“Yikes, here we go,” I mutter, my eyes still firmly shut.
“Morning already?” I whisper to him, my voice still thick with sleep. His floppy ears tickle my cheek, just like they always do. “Wish I could stay in bed with you, buddy. But duty calls.”
I force myself upright, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
The apartment is still dark and quiet, the kind of pre-dawn silence that makes the city feel almost peaceful.
No honking taxis yet, no neighbors arguing through thin walls.
Just me, my racing thoughts, and the faint glow of the streetlight sneaking through the blinds.
After a quick glass of water and my usual blue razz pre-workout, I pull on my favorite lemon-yellow training top and black shorts. The training top fabric hugs my body like a second skin—supportive enough for heavy lifts but cute enough that I didn’t feel like a total mess.
Today I’m flying solo, and honestly, I kind of need the headspace.
The gym is only a ten-minute walk away. The cold morning air nips at my cheeks as I power-walk, earbuds in but the volume low. I replay yesterday’s scene work in my head, Dermott’s praise still warming me.
Bring that raw energy to the audition.
Easier said than done when my schedule is already bursting at the seams. Clients, classes, protein bars from sweet Mr. Jameson, and the constant hustle to keep rent paid.
But the gym is my sanctuary.
Early mornings mean empty floors, no waiting for machines, and zero small talk unless I want it.
Perfect.
I headed straight for the free weights section, the familiar scent of rubber mats and faint sweat greeting me like an old friend. The shoulder press machine is free.
Score!
I load the appropriate plates, adjust the seat for my smaller frame, and settle in.
“Alright, shoulders,” I mutter, gripping the handles. “Let’s make it count.”
I push through the first few reps, feeling the burn build nicely in my delts. Form is everything—controlled movement, no swinging, core tight. Halfway through the set, I become vaguely aware of movement beside me. Someone has claimed the bench right next to mine.
No big deal.
I finish the set with a satisfied exhale, racking the handles and shaking out my arms. That’s when I look over.
My stomach does a weird little flip.
It’s him.
The older guy from yesterday.
The one Skeet pointed out with that knowing laugh. Tall, broad, hair cropped short, and shoulders that looked like they could bench-press a small car. He is already seated at the machine next to mine, loading plates that made my eyes widen. Way heavier than what I’m working with.
A dark energy rolls off him like heat from pavement in summer. Not creepy exactly, but… intense.
Commanding.
The kind of presence that makes the air feel thicker. His jaw is set, expression focused and unreadable. No friendly nod, no casual gym bro energy. Just quiet, menacing power.
I try not to stare as he begins his own set. His form is actually pretty solid—controlled descent, explosive but smooth press. Still, I spot a couple of tiny corrections: slight flare in the elbows on the way up, and maybe a touch more retraction could help him avoid shoulder strain later.
As a trainer, the instinct to offer feedback kicks in hard.
Don’t you dare, I tell myself firmly. He’s not a client. And that vibe… nope.
There is something almost dangerous about how composed he is. Like he is used to the world bending around him rather than the other way around. I swallow and look away, pretending to adjust my water bottle.
But my heart is beating faster than the set warranted.
He finishes his reps with a low grunt that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Then, to my complete surprise, he turns his head and speaks…
“Kirill,” he says.
His voice is deep, lightly accented—kind of Russian, I guess—with a calm authority that makes it sound less like an introduction and more like a statement of fact.
I blink, my brain short-circuiting for a second. “Uh… Teddy. Hi.”
The words come out stumbling and breathy. Heat floods my cheeks instantly.
What is wrong with me?
Sure, he is hot—older, built like a Greek god who lifts actual boulders, with those piercing eyes that seem to see straight through casual small talk. But this feels like more than simple attraction. My skin tingles, and a strange mix of nervousness and something warmer pools low in my belly.
I shift on the seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how my yellow top clings to my skin from the light sweat.
Kirill doesn’t smile, but his gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than polite.
“I saw you training someone yesterday,” Kirill says. You’re good with form. Patient too.”
Oh no. Here it comes. The part where the hot gym guy asks me to train him personally and I have to politely decline because professional boundaries.
I brace myself, already forming the gentle rejection in my head.
Instead, he continues without waiting for my reply, his tone matter-of-fact and brooking no argument.
“You will train my nephew. Bobby. He needs discipline and strength,” Kirill commands. “The pay will be at your usual rate, multiplied by two. You start tomorrow.”
I stare at him, mouth slightly open. “Wait… what?”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even really a request. It was a declaration. Like Kirill had already decided and the conversation was just a formality.
My mind races…
Train his nephew?
No real discussion of schedule, goals, or even his age and fitness level?
And why did the word “discipline” coming from his lips send such a confusing spark through me?
Before I can gather my scattered thoughts or form a coherent response—I have clients, auditions, a life—a man in dark clothing approaches from the side. He moves with quiet purpose, leaning in to whisper something in Kirill’s ear.
Kirill’s expression doesn’t change much, but I catch the subtle tightening of his jaw. He gives a short nod, then stands. His eyes flick back to me once.
“Tomorrow,” Kirill says. “I’ll have details sent to you.”
And just like that, he walks away with the other man, leaving me sitting there dumbfounded on the shoulder press machine.
No goodbye.
No number exchange.
No chance for me to say yes, no, or what the actual heck?
I blink at the empty space where he’d been. The gym feels oddly quieter without his presence, even though only a handful of people are scattered around. My pulse is still racing though, that’s for sure.
“What just happened?” I whisper to myself.
Shaking my head, I load up for another set, but my focus is shot. Every press brings back the memory of his deep voice, the way he looked at me like the decision was already made, and that dark, commanding energy that seemed to wrap around me even after he left.
By the time I finish my workout—legs, core, a quick cardio finisher—my body is pleasantly exhausted, but my mind is a whirlwind.
Who is Kirill?
And why did a five-minute interaction with a near-stranger leave me feeling so… off-balance?
I head to the locker room, towel slung over my shoulder. The showers are empty this early—another perk of the 5 a.m. crew. I strip quickly, stepping under the hot spray with a grateful sigh. Water cascades over my shoulders, easing the muscle fatigue.
But as I lather up, my thoughts refused to settle.
Kirill’s face kept flashing behind my closed eyes. The low rumble of his voice saying You will train my nephew. The way he hadn’t asked—he’d told.
A forbidden little thrill runs through me.
My hand slows on my stomach, then drifts lower without conscious permission. I bite my lip, glancing at the shower cubicle’s mostly opaque door even though I know I am alone.
This is ridiculous.
I don’t do this here. Not in the gym. Not over some random—okay, not random—guy who’d basically bossed me into a training gig.
Yet my fingers wrap around my stiff cock anyway and begin to pump. Slow at first but quickly ascending to a hard, fast, almost feverishly fast rhythm.
I picture him again. Those intense eyes watching me struggle through my last rep yesterday.
The effortless power in his own lifts. The authoritative way he’d cut through small talk and laid down his expectation.
Discipline and strength. The phrase echoes in my head, twisting into something hotter, something that makes my breath hitch.
What would it feel like if a man like that decided other things for me?
Not just training schedules, but… more?
My hand pumps faster, pressure building as steam fills the stall. I imagine his large hand guiding my form instead—firm, unyielding, correcting me with that calm Russian-lilted accent.
Again. Better.
The fantasy shifts darker, his voice dropping as he praises or scolds.
My knees weaken as I feel my body stiffening and tensing with the build of excitement.
“Oh…” A soft whimper escapes me. I press my forehead against the cool tile, chasing the rising wave. Thoughts of Kirill consume me—his size, his control, the dangerous edge I’d sensed.
My body responds eagerly, too eagerly, clenching around nothing as pleasure coils tight and then…
It hits me hard and fast.
I cum with a muffled gasp, quads tight, one hand braced against the wall while the other rides out the pulses and works my cock as it shoots a shockingly large amount of my hot cum over the tiling.
Stars dance behind my eyelids. For a long moment, only the sound of running water and my ragged breathing fills the stall.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, doing my best to regain control of my body and mind.
Then when the aftershocks fade, reality crashes back in.
I straighten quickly, rinse off with shaky hands. Heat—embarrassment this time—floods my face again.
“Who the hell is this man?” I mutter, grabbing my towel. “And why did a two-minute conversation turn me into… this?”
I’ve never reacted to anyone like that. Not this intensely. Not this fast. Sure, he is older, gorgeous, and carries himself like he owns the world. But I am a professional. I have boundaries. Dreams. Not to mention Brando waiting at home for snuggles and a full day of clients and classes ahead.
Yet as I dry off and get dressed, a tiny, traitorous part of me wonders what tomorrow will bring when I meet Bobby. And whether Kirill would be there too.
I shake my head, slinging my gym bag over my shoulder.
“Get it together, Teddy,” I tell my reflection in the foggy mirror. “He’s just a pushy rich asshole with a nephew who needs training. Nothing more.”
But even as I say it, I’m not sure I believe my own words.
That dark energy lingers, wrapping around my thoughts like a promise—or a warning.
And deep down, in the part of me that still feels the echoes of that unexpected climax, I’m not entirely sure I want to run from it.
* * *
The little corner café two blocks from my apartment has become my unofficial office. The smell of fresh coffee and warm pastries usually helps me focus, but today my mind keeps drifting.
I sit at my favorite window table with my laptop open, half-heartedly updating client training plans. Spreadsheets for progressive overload, notes on mobility work for Mrs. Patel’s bad knee, and a new glute activation sequence for Skeet.
My protein shake sits half-finished beside me. Every few minutes I catch myself staring out at the passing pedestrians, replaying the gym encounter on loop. Kirill’s deep voice. The way he’d said “You will train my nephew” like it was already law. The abrupt exit. The shower.
God, the shower.
My cheeks warm again just thinking about it.
I shake my head and force my attention back to the screen.
Focus, Teddy.
You have bills to pay and an audition next week.
Let’s do this…
The café door chimes in the background. I don’t look up at first—until a shadow falls over my table.
I glance up and recognize him immediately: the man who whispered in Kirill’s ear at the gym. Same dark clothing, same quiet, purposeful movement. He wasn’t smiling then, and he isn’t now either…
Without a word, he places a crisp white envelope on the table in front of me.
“Details for Bobby,” he says, voice low and clipped, carrying the same faint accent as Kirill’s. “Session times, address, payment information. Everything you need.”
I stare at the envelope, then back at him.
My irritation from earlier flares back to life, mixing with the lingering bemusement.
“Look, I appreciate the… confidence,” I say, keeping my tone polite but firm. “But I’m not sure I have room in my schedule right now for a new client. My calendar is pretty packed with existing clients, classes, and—”
The man cuts me off with a slight shake of his head. His expression remains neutral, almost bored, but there is an unmistakable edge beneath it.
“This is not a request.”
He lets the words hang in the air for a moment, then continues…
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll make room for Bobby. Kirill doesn’t take no for an answer.”
A chill runs down my spine despite the warm café. The casual way he delivered the warning made it sound like simple fact rather than a threat—yet it landed like one.
My optimistic trainer brain wants to laugh it off, to insist this is all some misunderstanding. But the dark energy I’d felt from Kirill that morning echoes in this man’s words now too.
Before I can respond, the man turns on his heel and walks out of the café without another word, the door chiming softly behind him.
I sit there, envelope in hand, staring at the space he’d occupied. Bemused doesn’t even cover it.
Irritated? Definitely.
A big part of me wants to march after him and tell him exactly where he can shove his non-request. Who did these people think they were? I am a personal trainer, not some employee they can order around.
And yet…
I slide my finger under the flap and opened the envelope. Inside is a neatly typed schedule, a generous double hourly rate that makes my eyes widen, and an address in a very upscale part of the city.
Bobby Antonov, age nineteen. Goals: strength, discipline, confidence.
I close the envelope slowly, my mind spinning.
Part of me is genuinely annoyed—this was pushy, borderline rude, and completely outside how I normally take on clients.
But another part, the same traitorous part that had fallen apart in the shower earlier, feels a strange flutter of excitement.
Kirill hasn’t forgotten. He’s followed through exactly as he’d said he would.
Just like a Daddy might…
“Urgh,” I grumble. “No.”
I take a slow sip of my now-lukewarm protein shake and looked out the window again.
“Bossy much?” I mutter under my breath, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips despite myself.
Still, as I save the new client details into my spreadsheet and try to refocus on my plans, one question keeps circling:
What exactly had I just gotten myself into?