Chapter 3
“Are you sure about this, Morgan?” My sister’s voice blares through my speakers as I drive from work to the Flex Factory. Well, speed—because of course I’m running late.
“You’re a doctor, Michelle. You should want me to go to the gym. Besides, did you not see the man’s photo I sent you? I am one hundred percent sure about this.”
As soon as I got home last night, I may have done some light research on social media. One click on Jiho’s profile picture, and holy hell, talk about abs I could literally wash my clothes on. Here’s to hoping my washing machine gives out in the near future.
Seriously, though, I must be ovulating or something. Just seeing that photo made me wish I could jump into my phone and ride him bareback into the sunset. I even sent him a damn wink face when he texted me.
“Yes, I saw it,” Michelle says with a sigh. “He’s dripping in hotness.”
I chuckle, noting the sarcasm. “You’re not impressed.”
“Not at all. You know I have high standards for both myself and my little sister. He called you racist, Sis. You shouldn’t be drooling over a man who calls you that.”
I roll my eyes. Michelle rules her own life with logic and standards, and occasionally—without success—tries to rule mine the same way. Although we’re only a year and a half apart in age, she’s always taken the big-sister-protector role seriously, even into our thirties. But as much as I love her, she’ll never relate. She just can’t.
Michelle takes after our mom—tall, blonde, bright baby blues, and stupid skinny. I take after our dad—short and squatty with the slowest fucking metabolism to ever metabolize.
“And I don’t understand,” Michelle continues, huffing at this point. “You’re leaving in three months to live on the complete opposite side of the world for a year. Which I’m still pissed about, by the way. Why would you want to get involved with a man when you’re leaving so soon?”
“That’s exactly why. I get three months of no strings with a sexy gym god.”
There’s a pause, and then, “So, you just want to bang the man?”
“Yes, Michelle! Who wouldn’t?!”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about any sane, intelligent person with a fear of STDs and axe murderers?”
“Oh my God,” I mumble. “Sis, I haven’t been laid in three fucking years.”
A longer pause. “That long?”
“Yep,” I say, popping the P.
Michelle tsks three times. “My poor, horny little sister.”
“So you approve now?” I whine, her pity and my own having a party deep in my chest.
She sighs again. “As your sister, no—I will never approve of a reckless sex life. But as a doctor, studies do show that frequent sex has a ton of health benefits, physically and mentally. And it can help you lose weight, which I am proud of you for. Just be careful and make sure he wears a condom.”
“I’m horny, Michelle, not an idiot. Besides, I’m getting way ahead of myself. Nothing will probably even happen.”
She scoffs. “What makes you say that?”
My lips tighten into a thin line, contemplating if I should reveal this inner thought that’s been plaguing me for years. “Because reckless rendezvous with sexy gym gods don’t happen to girls who look like me.”
“Morgan…” Michelle inhales to say something else at the exact moment I pull my car into a parking spot, five minutes before 8:00 PM.
“I got to go,” I rush on, interrupting her next thought. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.” Hanging up before she has a chance to say anything else, I look out my windshield toward the gym. Besides noting that the lights are on, I can’t see anything.
Where’s Jiho behind that glass? Is he as anxious as I am? My fingers tap on my phone screen, pulling up his photo. God, this man. How am I supposed to focus on not killing myself on gym equipment when I have that face watching me the whole time?
At least I went out and bought a week’s worth of new workout sets over lunch today, specifically designed to lift, smooth, and keep fluffy bits from jiggling and wiggling. I wore my favorite one today—a purple and green set. It’s giving Barney the Dinosaur , but in a hot way. And yes, that’s possible.
My hands vibrate, and I jump, flinging my phone into the air and scrambling to catch it before it falls into the abyss between the driver’s seat and the center console. Exhaling in relief, I bring it up to my face to find a text from none other than the same man living rent-free in my head.
Forcing the smile threatening my lips to stay the fuck down, I instead scowl towards the windows. My phone vibrates again.
Why is that sexy? Am I…secretly a sub? I’ll put a pin in that little introspective note for later.
Throwing my phone in my purse and looping it over my arm, I grab my water bottle and exit the car, making sure to lock it. Twice.
Pushing through the door and setting my purse in one of the cubbies, I’m greeted by said sexy gym god. Alone. Sitting on a workout bench. Legs spread. Elbows on his knees. Staring intensely at his watch. Men shouldn’t be allowed to look this good doing normal human things like sitting and checking the time.
He stands, and it’s like I’m watching him in slow motion, seeing every perfect muscle of his flex and ripple. My poor vagina. Girl, I’m so sorry I signed us up for this torture.
“Finally,” Jiho says in a low, disgruntled voice that sends a pulse from my ears all the way to my tortured lady parts. “I thought I’d have to drag you out of that car.”
Shoving the desire to jump his bones down as far as I possibly can, I instead cross my arms and pop out a hip, trying to exude don’t-take-no-lip energy. “You’re acting like I’m late. It’s 8:00 PM on the dot.”
His brow furrows. “If you’re on time, you’re late.” Wait, is he actually annoyed? “And there’s nothing I find more annoying than people being late.”
Yep, he’s annoyed, and we certainly can’t have that, can we?
“Yes, drill sergeant,” I mock in a Forrest Gump accent, attempting to turn that frown upside down.
It kind of works? Because Jiho’s face relaxes into a smirk, and I feel quite pleased with myself.
Until he gestures with his hand, saying, “Follow me,” then points to one of the treadmills. “Time to run, Forrest.”
I look at the treadmill, then back at him. “Aren’t I supposed to do, like, a warm-up or something? The last time I ran, pretty sure I was chasing after the Amazon delivery guy.”
Jiho blinks. “This is the warm-up, and as much as I’d like to hear that story, we need to get started. Treadmill, Asterman.”
“Fine,” I drone, slightly disappointed. He’s different than I expected him to be tonight. I thought he’d be more flirtatious and less coachy. Less professional. I guess I was right when I said girls like me don’t pull men like Jiho Park.
A quiet, deep inhale fills my lungs, resigning myself to the fate that is my ass running on a damn treadmill.
Stepping onto the tread, my gaze meets his. “Can I at least know the plan for the session? I’m a planner. It’ll help me focus.”
“Sure,” Jiho says, nodding. “Tonight, we’ll establish your baselines. Numbers to compare to three months from now. You’ll jog for five minutes to warm up. One minute rest, then you’ll run a mile at a pace you feel comfortable. After that, we’ll move on to squats, wall sits, sit-ups, plank, push-ups, and finally, pull-ups.”
I gape at him. “All of that in one hour?”
“Actually,” he looks at his watch, “fifty-five minutes. And try not to worry. You’ll get some breaks. Are you ready?”
“What happens if I say no?”
He leans forward, hovering his hand over the start button. God, he smells like heaven. Whatever cologne he’s wearing, I want to bathe in it. Or maybe have him bathe me in it.
“Same thing if you say yes,” he quips, flashing a grin before his hand falls the rest of the way, leading to the next forty-five minutes of pure hell.
The five-minute warm-up was a breeze compared to the one-mile run, which I finished in an astounding fifteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds.
Unsurprisingly, the squats and wall-sits were fine. With my curves comes insane lower body strength, regardless of whether or not I actually train my legs. Their baseline is always strong as hell. Upper body strength is a completely different story.
After my measly ten sit-ups in sixty seconds and my twenty-second plank, Jiho points to the mat and orders, “On your knees.”
I can’t help but blush, but thankfully, my cheeks are already embarrassingly red from my torture session—sorry, my workout session. He must realize how forward he sounded because his cheeks turn a shade of red too.
Jiho clears his throat. “For push-ups, I mean. Unless you can do the unmodified form.”
“No,” I sneer, just a bit, “I can’t. I’m not a sexy gym god like you.”
“A what?”
Wincing, I cringe and backpedal. “N-nothing. I didn’t say anything.” You’re such an idiot, Morgan. Jesus.
He smiles, teeth and everything. “No, I believe you just called me a sexy gym god.”
“Nope. I did not.” I drop into the definitely-modified push-up form, desperate to move the fuck on. “Don’t forget to count, drill sergeant.” Probably fueled by my humiliation, I manage to somehow pump out fifteen in sixty seconds.
When I sit up and shake out my arms, I hold my breath, hoping he won’t bring up my fumble again. Thankfully, he doesn’t, but I swear he’s standing taller with his chest puffed out. Men and their easy-to-stroke egos.
Finally—fucking thank the Lord—he leads me to the last circuit. Pull-ups.
I look up at the bar. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Just go ahead and write a big fat zero next to pull-ups.”
“Hold your horses,” he chuckles, clearly amused. “Sexy tech queen.”
My eyes go wide, while he looks away. “You did not just call me that.” He thinks I can’t, but I definitely see him cringing. Happy to share, Jiho Park.
Moving to the wall, Jiho grabs something that looks like a giant rubber band and loops it over the bar. “Well, if I’m going to have a title like sexy gym god, you need one too. Fair is fair. Especially since we’re working together.”
“Correction,” I snap, bracing a hand on my hip. “I am working. You’re just following me around and telling me what to do.”
He deadpans a stare my way. “That’s exactly a personal trainer’s job, and you know it.”
Fine, I do know it. But I think it’s the stubborn, feminist she-wolf inhabiting my soul. Anytime a man tells me what to do, I feel the need to dig in my heels. That being said, maybe I was wrong to agree to this arrangement and should text Jina tonight, telling her I changed my mind. So much for Team Sub…
That is until Jiho’s long fingers wrap around my waist. My eyes flutter up at him, surprised but more so intrigued to see where this goes.
His feet step closer, and he asks in a quiet, assuring, goddamn seductive voice, “Ready?”
“F-for what?” I stammer through a swallow, my eyes holding his like his hands hold my waist, his fingertips pressing firmly against my skin. I would love for those fingertips to press firmly against something else. Here’s a hint: it starts with c and ends with lit.
A corner of his mouth kicks up. “On the count of three, grab onto the bar and place a foot in the loop of the band. Got it?” Right…pull-ups. I nod. “Okay, one, two, three.”
Easily—it’s so hot that it’s easy for him—Jiho lifts me, and I follow his instructions to a T.
“Now, when I let go,” he continues, “I want you to try to do as many reps as you can, even if it’s only one. The band will assist you.”
“Okay, I’m ready.” That’s a lie. I’m not ready. In fact, being this high up makes me shaky. Since when am I scared of heights? Oh yeah, I’ve always been scared of heights—Jiho’s hands made me forget.
Shit, shit, shit .
Jiho lets go, and my waist feels oddly cold without his touch. But my body sinks lower until my elbows lock, pulling my focus to the fact that I’m hanging like a giant, dead fish from a hook.
“Good, Morgan,” he praises, and boy, do I like the sound of him praising me. “Now try to pull yourself up. You should mainly feel this in your traps and lats.”
“What the hell is a trap and lat?” I—unfortunately—grunt. Such a sexy tech queen, am I right?
Sauntering behind me, Jiho places two fingers in the middle of my upper back, between my shoulder blades on either side of my spine. “Traps, or trapezius muscles.” His fingers lightly and slowly trace down my spine to my mid-back, leaving goosebumps behind. “Lats,” he…purrs? That word sounded very low and gravelly.
Fingers leaving my skin, that cold feeling returning, he clears his throat and orders, “Pull up,” that kitty cat purr nowhere to be heard.
So I do.
Or, at least attempt to. My arms and back—right where Jiho touched—strain, and my body slowly lifts. I’m almost to the top when the height truly gets to me.
I wobble.
My foot slips.
I fall.
Jiho tries to catch me.
And we both tumble to the ground.
Not knowing which way is up, it takes about three seconds to reorient myself and realize that my boobs landed right on his face.
Great. This is great.
On second number four, my body moves on instinct, trying to push myself up and run out of the gym to go—simply and quickly—unalive myself from the white-hot embarrassment. But I can’t move.
Jiho’s hands are holding me against him.
No, pulling me against him.
And he’s groaning into my cleavage, his tongue finding a nipple through my sports bra, lapping over it. Sucking on it like it’s a piece of candy.
“Oh, God,” I moan, the sound encouraging him as he trades his tongue for his teeth. I arch into his bite, my pussy pressing against his cock. Damn, he feels huge.
In an instant, his hands push, and his leg hooks around mine, spinning us until he’s on top and my back hits the floor mat. I weigh a good two hundred pounds, yet this man moves me like I weigh the same as a hamster. I should know. I had five of them growing up, and they all went to live happily on a hamster farm.
“Fuck, Morgan,” Jiho purrs again, his perfect lips hovering just over mine. I really like that purr. “I need you to tell me to stop.”
“What if I don’t want to?” Because I really don’t want to. I was certain something like this—the hottest man alive looking at me like he hasn’t eaten in days, and I’m his favorite kind of food—doesn’t happen to girls like me.
Girls like me attract every kind of man who isn’t our type. Like Ed, the snaggle-toothed homeless man living behind the dumpsters at the QuickStop gas station. Sorry, Ed. I may not have my sister’s high standards, but I at least have some. And you don’t meet them, my dude.
“Yeah, I really don’t want to,” I breathe.
He moves his lips to my jaw and nips, ringing another sound of pleasure from my throat. “Then I’m going to have to bleach this place twice.”
And before I can process whatever the hell that means, his lips are on mine, cutting off my next thought with a kiss that is nothing but heat and hunger. Not soft or sweet—it’s fucking devouring and relentless. The kind of kiss I’ve only seen in movies and raunchy TV shows, demanding every ounce of air in my lungs and replacing it with fire.
His hands grip my hips like they’re the only thing anchoring him, and I’m melting, burning, and somehow still wanting more. Lust, pure and unfiltered, courses through every nerve in my body. It’s overwhelming, wild, and dangerous in a way I never knew a kiss could be.
My fingers find his silky hair, pulling his lips harder against mine. He grinds his cock into me, his mouth swallowing my moan, and making me wish I had magic powers or a genie to make our clothes disappear. I want his cock inside of me, not dry-humping me like we’re a couple of teenagers.
Shit. I really am Michelle’s poor, horny little sister.
Oh well, may as well lean into the role, I think, grinding back against his length. Even through our clothes, I can feel how delightfully rock-hard he is, and I still can’t believe I did that to him.
Thankfully, Jiho can apparently read minds because his fingers skim the waistband of my pants.
“May I?” he murmurs against my mouth.
What a gentleman. “God, yes.”
His mouth moves to my neck, licking and kissing up and down the column as his fingers slip under my pants. He almost reaches the thing that begins with c and ends with lit when the FUCKING PHONE RINGS.
It scares the shit out of me, the sound amplified by the basically empty gym. Meanwhile, the logical part of my brain—tied up and gagged by my pathetic desperation—grabs onto the noise like a personal alarm bell.
God, Morgan, are you insane? I was about to do the nasty with a guy I barely know—albeit a ridiculously hot guy I barely know. I’m not a super-prude like my sister, but Morgan Asterman doesn’t do this sort of thing.
I push Jiho off, and he doesn’t fight it, even with his dick looking like it’s about to angrily combust.
Sitting up, cross-legged, I mutter, “You should probably get that.”
Jiho sighs and runs a hand through his hair before he stands. “Promise me you won’t leave.”
I nod, but I already know I’m not keeping that promise. This thing between us is too…shocking? Outrageous? Reckless? D—all the above.
Men like Jiho use women like me for fun and then say see ya later, without even a slap on the ass as we’re shoved out the door. Afterwards, they deny to their friends that they even know us. Yeah, another grand reality of plus-size life.
I won’t begin to assume that Jiho has the same intentions. Again, I barely know the guy. But I sure as hell don’t want to find out.
So, as soon as Jiho disappears into the office to answer the phone, I do what I’ve done best when it comes to men over the past three years.
Leave.