Chapter 25 #2
The moment I open the door, I’m hit with the smell of sweat and testosterone and Alpha. The basement has been converted into a full gym. Weight equipment, benches, a whole section of free weights, even a boxing ring in one corner.
And there, in the middle of it all, are Mason and Dylan.
In sweatpants. Loose tank tops that show off absolutely every muscle.
This is completely unfair.
Mason is doing bicep curls with weights that look impossibly heavy, his arms flexing. Dylan is at the bench press, pushing up what has to be over two hundred pounds like it’s nothing.
I’m turned on at the blink of an eye recently—around them, anyway—but this is torture.
“There she is,” Dylan announces, racking his weights and sitting up with a grin. “Ready to become a man?”
“That’s a concerning way to phrase it,” I reply, trying not to stare at how his tank top clings to his chest.
“If you’re going to convince Reed you’re a real man,” Mason says, setting down his weights and dragging a towel across the back of his neck, his gaze flicking over me in a way that feels far too assessing to be innocent, “we need to teach you how to carry yourself. Walk, talk, sit. The whole package. Right now, as Ash, you look like you’re apologizing for existing. ”
“And building some strength won’t hurt,” Dylan adds, leaning his forearms on the rack, watching me with open amusement. “Confidence isn’t just attitude. It’s physical. You move differently when you know you can back it up.”
“Plus,” Mason adds, mouth curving slowly as his gaze drops and then rises again with no attempt to hide it, “we get to watch you work out. Which, I’m not going to lie, I’m personally very invested in.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s heat climbing up my neck anyway. “You two are way too interested in this. Okay,” I concede, lifting my chin. “Where do we start?”
“Walking,” Dylan decides immediately. “Show us how Ash walked.”
I demonstrate the walk I practiced endlessly in mirrors and empty hallways. Shoulders loose. Steps longer. Taking up space instead of shrinking away. I even add the slight head tilt that I’d convinced myself looked casual and confident.
They stare at me for exactly two seconds before both of them break.
Mason bends forward, hands braced on his thighs, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. Dylan turns away entirely, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying and failing to maintain composure.
“What?” I demand, glaring between them. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You look,” Mason manages between breaths, straightening slowly, “like you’re smuggling something fragile between your legs and you’re terrified it might break.”
Dylan loses it again. “It’s the shoulders,” he says, pointing. “Why are they doing that?”
“I am not doing anything with my shoulders.”
“You are,” Mason assures me. “They’re trying to escape your body.”
“I hate both of you.”
“That’s fair,” Dylan says. “But also deserved.”
“Then show me how to do it right,” I challenge, crossing my arms. “Since you’re clearly experts.”
Dylan steps forward immediately, expression shifting into something exaggerated and theatrical. He rolls his shoulders back, lifts his chin, and starts walking across the room like he owns every square inch of air.
“This,” he announces in a comically deep voice, “is how real men walk. With confidence. Power. Like the ground is lucky to be stepped on.”
He pauses, then adds with a dead-serious expression, “Also like our balls are so massive they’ve altered our center of gravity.”
I burst out laughing. “That is not how men walk. That’s how peacocks audition for leadership.”
“There’s overlap,” Mason says thoughtfully.
Dylan turns, still in character. “Notice the lack of hesitation. The complete absence of self-doubt.”
“You look like you’re about to challenge someone to a duel,” I tell him.
“That’s because I am,” he replies. “And I’m winning.”
I try to replicate it, pushing my shoulders back and lengthening my stride, but the second I do, Mason makes a strangled sound and grabs Dylan’s arm.
“Oh, no,” Mason says. “No, that’s worse.”
“Worse?” I repeat indignantly.
“You went from penguin to offended prince,” Dylan says.
I glare at them.
Mason steps in front of me. “Here,” he says, his voice softer now, more focused. His hands settle on my shoulders without hesitation, large and warm, steadying me. “Stop thinking so much. That’s your biggest problem.”
His palms press lightly, adjusting my posture with deliberate care.
“Relax this,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing the tension he finds there. “You’re not trying to convince anyone. You already belong.”
My breath catches before I can stop it.
He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does and chooses not to comment.
“Confidence isn’t performance,” he continues. “It’s certainty. You don’t ask for space. You take it.”
His hands slide briefly down my arms before releasing me. “Try again.”
I swallow and walk forward. This time, neither of them laughs.
Dylan watches me carefully, his expression shifting into something quieter. Mason’s gaze lingers in a way that feels far less like teasing and far more like appreciation.
“Yeah,” Dylan says finally, voice low. “That’s better.”
Mason nods once. “Much better.”
He glances at Dylan, then back at me. “See?” he says. “You’re learning already.”
There’s pride in his voice that feels entirely too good to hear.
Dylan starts to circle me like a predator. “You need more swagger and hip movement.” He demonstrates, adding this rolling motion to his hips that’s somehow both masculine and ridiculously sexy.
I try to copy it and apparently fail miserably, because Mason snorts.
“Okay, okay.” Dylan comes up behind me this time, his hands on my hips. “Feel how I’m moving you? It’s subtle but deliberate. You’re not swinging your hips like you’re trying to seduce someone. You’re moving with purpose.”
His hands guide my hips through the motion, and now I’m very aware of everywhere he touches me.
We spend the next hour working on various aspects of being a man. How to lower my voice without sounding like I’m doing a bad Batman impression. How to do that guy-nod thing that apparently means everything from hello to I acknowledge your existence to nice weather.
They demonstrate by doing increasingly ridiculous versions of everything, making me laugh so hard my stomach hurts.
“Okay,” Mason says, wiping tears from his own eyes after Dylan’s particularly absurd demonstration of the male stance. “Let’s work on how you stand when talking to other men. This is important. Reed will be watching for this specifically.”
I ask. “Isn’t standing just… standing?”
“Oh, sweet, innocent Anita,” Dylan says with a grin. “There’s standing, and then there’s standing like you own the fucking room.”
“Show me, then.”
Mason moves behind me, and I immediately tense as his hands settle on my hips. Not on my clothes. On my bare skin where my T-shirt has ridden up slightly.
“Relax,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my neck. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight balanced evenly.”
His hands guide my hips into position, his fingers curling into my skin with firm pressure. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, warming my back.
“Good. Now shoulders back.” His hands slide up my sides, fingertips trailing along my ribs, leaving goose bumps in their wake. “Chest out slightly. Not aggressively, just confident.”
His chest presses against my back as he adjusts my posture, and I can feel everything. The solid muscle. The steady heartbeat. And definitely, unmistakably, the beginning of an erection pressing against my ass.
My breath hitches.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “Just like that. Feel how stable you are? How grounded?”
I’m feeling a lot of things right now. Grounded isn’t one of them.
Dylan moves in front of me, and now I’m sandwiched between them. His hands come to my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the hollow of my collarbone.
“Chin up a bit,” he instructs. “Eye contact is crucial. You need to look men straight in the eye without flinching. Show them you’re not intimidated.”
His green eyes lock on to mine, intense and heated, and I’m immediately transported back to that night at this house. The way those eyes looked at me while he was between my legs. The way he grinned up at me right before making me scream.
How huge they were. How perfectly he and Mason worked together to drive me absolutely insane.
Mason’s hands are still on my waist under my shirt, his thumbs now stroking my bare skin. His breath is on my neck, warm and steady, and he shifts slightly behind me, pressing closer.
The erection against my ass is definitely more prominent now.
“This is how you stand,” Mason says quietly, his lips so close to my ear that I can feel them move. “Like nothing can shake you and you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
I’m trembling slightly between them. If I kissed one of them right now, we would absolutely end up in a puddle on the floor. No clothes. Panting. Desperate.
God, it sounds so good.
No. Control. I need control.
But what is happening to me? I’ve been insatiable lately. Constantly turned on, constantly wanting them.
“You okay?” Dylan asks as if he can see exactly what’s running through my mind.
“Fine,” I manage. “Totally fine. Just… learning.”
“Uh-huh.” His thumb strokes along my collarbone again. “You’re a very dedicated student.”
“Extremely dedicated,” Mason agrees against my neck, and I feel his smile.
I take a shaky breath and step away from both of them before I do something we’ll all enjoy but will definitely derail this training session completely.
“Okay,” I say, my voice slightly breathless. “I think I’ve got the stance down. What’s next?”
They exchange a look that clearly says they know exactly what they were doing to me and enjoyed every second of it. And based on the heat in both their eyes, I have a feeling this training session is about to get even more dangerous.