Chapter 2
I couldn’t help myself. When she walked out of that store, her glorious ass, thighs, and tits bouncing with each step, my eyes saw, my heart thumped, and my dick strained against my shorts. Not necessarily in that order.
Because I’m not a fucking creep, I was just going to subtly stare and let her get on with her life. But when she flipped off the bag, I just knew I had to talk to her.
Then she opened her smart mouth, and whaddya know? My dick throbbed again. Thank God I had the banner in my hands.
I’ll admit it, though. Calling her racist wasn’t the best decision. If my cock could magically morph into a human, he’d beat my ass for probably ruining any chance I had with her.
But damn, she’s cute when she’s mad. And the fact that she pulled the whole surprise-I-can-read-Korean-you-ignorant-asshole touché made her all the cuter.
In the past, I’ve received a lot of shit for my love of thicker women, but only from friends outside of the fitness world. The truth is, most men in my industry love women with soft bodies and curves for days. I pump iron all day around fellow meatheads. The last thing I want is to fuck a woman with a body that reminds me of grunting, sweaty gym bros. Talk about a perfect way to induce erectile dysfunction…which I definitely don’t have.
After the woman with the tits, ass, and thighs of my dreams follows my sister into the gym, I finish hanging the grand opening banner, purposefully taking long enough for my dick to calm the hell down.
But once it does, I step down from the ladder, collapse it, and walk inside. If I were a creep, I would put the ladder away and proceed to follow them around. I don’t, though. Because I’m not.
Convinced yet? Kind of? I’ll take it.
I may not be a creep—as I’ve thoroughly established—but I am a silent partner in this venture, and Jina constantly reminds me that my opinion doesn’t matter. Oh, and that the customers are strictly off-limits. But I might have to fight her on this one. With exactly one card to play, this is my moment.
At twenty-five, I opened my first gym with money I’d been saving since childhood. Eleven years later at thirty-six, that one gym has grown into a national chain. So, when my little sister came to me with the idea for Flex Factory, I agreed to front her the money under the condition that I’m a silent partner. She needs to run this place herself and make it successful herself.
Yeah, yeah, I know. If the silent partnership was my idea, I shouldn’t be complaining about wanting to speak up now. But you know what? Fuck that.
It’s not every day I see a woman and fall in I want you at first sight. Usually, I hardly even notice women. Sure, I’ve had my fair share of one-night stands and even a handful of failed relationship attempts over the past decade, but my number one priority has always been working toward success.
Jina and I grew up in a comfortable life with immigrant parents working their asses off to provide it for us. Returning the favor, I make sure they want for nothing as they age.
Our parents hated the intense school systems in South Korea and the mandatory military service for men, among other things. They didn’t want me growing up all stressed out of my goddamn mind, focused only on fucking school.
That said, when I was three, they packed up and moved us to Austin, Texas. Jina—a surprise—was born here nine years later. Having a newborn sister at the age of twelve was different, to say the least, but I quickly fell in love with her squishy little face. To this day, it’s hard for me to say no to her, hence the silent partnership with Flex Factory.
Pretending to organize some shit, I watch Jina speaking with the woman I will sure as fuck be seeing again. My sister’s a natural, happily giving a tour of the small, private gym. There’s not much here—a streamlined setup, with its primary focus on personal training.
A small free weight section sits along the back wall with a squat station and bench press. There’s a mat area for bootcamps, calisthenics, and future classes. A sauna big enough for two people in the back corner next to an ice-tub, then an office, a bathroom with a shower, and a small room for massage therapy, sans a therapist. Jina assures me she’s working on it.
A couple of treadmills, ellipticals, and a stair climber line the front windows, tinted with a reflective material to both keep out the Texas sun and gawking eyes. Gym members can see out, but people can’t see in—a brilliant idea of Jina’s that I made sure to implement in my gyms, too.
The reasons why more men attend gyms than women are many, but safety is one of them. Women want to go to the gym to work out, not to be stared at by creepy-ass men both in and out of the gym. That’s why my gyms and Jina’s have a strict mind-your-fucking-business policy, and that includes where your eyes look.
And now I’m a hypocrite, because I can’t take my eyes off the woman’s ass as she follows Jina into her office. But I bide my time, waiting, pretending to do more shit. Until twenty minutes later, she emerges, a signed membership contract in hand, bolting for the door and refusing to look my way.
Oh, hell yeah. I love hard-to-get.
Before she walks out, I call to her, “Hey, Racist, wait a sec.”
Pausing, one of her eyes visibly twitches. Why is it so much fun getting under this woman’s skin?
She takes a deep breath, plastering a prim smile on her face and turning to me. “Yes, Insufferable Asshole?”
A chuckle rumbles through me. She’s funny. “What’s your name? It’s only fair that I know yours since you know mine.”
“Morgan,” she says, her pouty lips quirking to the side.
“Well then, see you later, Morgan.” I flash an award-winning grin, the same one that made her blush before. Sure enough, a cherry red begins to stain her cheeks.
But she raises her chin my way, her mouth twisting, fighting off her own smile. “I sure hope not,” she snaps before making her exit.
I stand there, watching—definitely ogling—that perfect ass walk away until I feel a small presence next to me.
“Really , Oppa? Can you stare any harder?” Jina snarks.
I don’t waste a second. “I’m going to train her.”
My sister throws her head back, barking a laugh. “No, you’re not. She’s my customer, remember, silent partner? My first customer. Why would I hand her over to you?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll keep every penny.”
“What?” she asks, raising a brow the same way our mother does. “If you don’t want the money, why do you want to train her?”
“Let’s just say I need some fun in my life.” It’s true. For a while now, my life’s been dull as fuck, just living the mundane day-to-day.
There’s a pause, then, “Gross, Oppa. If you get your freak on in my gym, I’ll make you bleach every square inch of this place. Twice.”
That fully gets my attention, looking her square in the face. “I would never.”
“Yeah, right. Well, don’t get too attached to her. She’s moving in three months to Seoul of all places.”
“Seoul?” Suddenly, her racist comments make sense. “Why is she moving there?”
“She works for K-Tech. They’re sending her there for a year. Anyway, I agreed on a three-month contract for her. With me as her personal trainer.”
Shit. Three months? That’s it? I need to move fast, then. Here comes the trump card, my eyes giving Jina a look only she understands.
“No,” she says slowly. “Absolutely fucking not. You’re not playing that card. It’s for emergencies only. You having the hots for a girl is not an emergency, Oppa. It’s desperation.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You owe me, Jina. I bailed you out—literally—and paid to have it expunged from your record.”
She matches my movements, folding her tiny arms across her chest. “We’ve been over this. That tree was hundreds of years old. They had no right to cut it down. I had to do something.”
“False. Their property, their tree.” Smirking, I add, “Maybe Eomma and Appa should know about your activism.”
Jina gasps. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
“I won’t. Only if you give me Morgan.”
“Okay, first, ew. Women aren’t given. Second, fine. You can train her only if she agrees.” Jina sighs, her shoulders relaxing. “Besides, John is coming into town tomorrow. I can pick him up from the airport now…I guess.”
Ah, good ole fucking John, and I say that with love.
He’s about two years younger than me, but the two of us grew up together until his parents dragged his ass back to Korea in high school. Little Jiho and John definitely wreaked some havoc in our formative years, with Jina trying to keep up on her wobbly toddler legs. A few times a year, he visits to study under chefs in the area—not that he needs to anymore with his shiny new Michelin star.
We catch up every now and then, but he and Jina weirdly talk every day. He’s my actual best friend, but they’re best friends. Basically, they’re fucking in love with one another but too chicken shit to do anything about it.
Stepping around my sister, I tousle her hair as I pass by, picking up my gym bag and car keys. “See, kiddo? I’m doing you a favor. You should be thanking me.”
“Shut the fuck up, Oppa, and get out of here,” she says, smoothing her hair.
I salute her, pushing through the door. Within five minutes, I’m sitting in my Supra, starting the engine, when my phone vibrates three times.
I throw a fist into the air in victory, then my fingers fly, typing out a response.
She really does love me. I know it. But before I zoom away, I send one more text.
Three dots flicker, then disappear, then flicker again. Damn, since when do three little dots make my heart fucking race?
Fuck, that mouth of hers. Good thing I get to punish her tomorrow, albeit not in the way I really want to.
Clicking on her contact photo, her face lights up my screen. Thoughts I can only describe as dirty and depraved race through my mind, picturing exactly how I would like to punish her, starting with my cock in her mouth.
Rolling my head, my muscles pop, my dick straining painfully against my shorts again. Quickly, I throw my car into first and drive, peeling out of the parking lot, pedal to the floor. I need to get home—and fast—to take care of this…problem. Because it sure as hell is a problem.
Regardless of the insane attraction I feel for this woman, I’m a professional with a reputation to uphold. The last thing I need is a bad review saying that I am, in fact, a creep and tried to fuck a client while she did bent over rows.
And now my dick is at full attention.
Fuck me. I just need to take the edge off.
Pulling into my driveway, I wait for my gate to open—painstakingly inch by inch. Yeah, that’s getting fixed tomorrow. I have a feeling this exact scenario is going to happen on the regular in the next three months.
By the time I finally park in the garage, the only thing on my mind is a shower with a purpose. Peeling off my clothes and stepping into the rainfall of warm water, I know I should just turn the temp to ice-cold and call it a day. But I can’t get Morgan’s pouty lips and golden-brown eyes out of my head. Not to mention those glorious, luscious tits.
Fisting my cock, I begin stroking, imagining her tongue circling my tip, sliding down to the base before she comes back up, swallowing me whole. Those big, brown eyes would look at me the entire time. I’d make sure of it.
My hand—her mouth—moves faster and harder until pressure builds at the base of my spine. She’d moan when my cock hits the back of her throat, tears forming in her eyes from choking, and the mere thought has the release slamming into me.
Bracing a hand on the wall, holding myself up while my body tenses, my dick finally softens, only partially satisfied. I haven’t come that hard in a damn hot minute.
And is the edge taken off? Absolutely fucking not.
Because the second my head falls back, letting the warm water run over my face, I think about her wet pussy sitting on it, and Jiho Jr. wakes right back up.
I’m so fucked.
I should probably say goodbye to my reputation.