5 - Jess
Jess
I had definitely gotten more than I bargained for today.
The heavy door of the locker room hissed shut behind me, instantly cutting off the ambient noise of the lobby, the clanking plates of the Muscle Mansion, and the suffocatingly intense presence of Hunter and Brock.
I pressed my back against the tiled wall for a fraction of a second, letting out a long, shaky breath that had been threatening since I stepped off that miserable elliptical.
My heart still hammered a chaotic rhythm fueled by equal parts unadulterated fury at the prick who’d worked out next to me, and a sudden, deeply inappropriate rush of adrenaline from the front desk.
I marched deeper into the changing area, the air growing progressively thicker, warmer, and heavily scented with expensive eucalyptus soap and premium shampoo.
It was a beautiful, sleek space with dark slate tiling, frosted glass, and polished chrome accents.
But right now, it was also packed. Saturday afternoon was clearly prime real estate at Capitol Fitness.
Women in various states of undress were bustling between the rows of mahogany lockers, drying their hair at the vanity stations, and chatting about their weekend plans.
I navigated the maze until I found an open locker near the back corner, thankfully tucked away from the main traffic flow.
I quickly scanned the row of shower stalls at the far end of the room.
Seven showers total, Hunter had said. But as I watched a woman in a neon sports bra slip into the fifth stall, I realized with a sudden juncture of panic that only two showers were left available.
I didn't want to stand around in my sweat-dampened clothes, feeling like an awkward, out-of-place intruder while the regulars glided past me with their effortless, gym-conditioned confidence.
Stripping down became a race against an imaginary clock.
I yanked the drawstrings of my oversized, faded hoodie, pulling the thick cotton fleece over my head and tossing it into the bottom of the locker.
Next came my sneakers and socks, then my leggings, until I was completely naked, shivering slightly as the cool air-conditioning of the room hit my bare skin.
Grabbing a fluffy white towel provided by the gym, I sped across the slate tile floor and slipped into one of the remaining vacant stalls, slamming the frosted glass door behind me with a satisfying, definitive click.
Privacy. Finally.
I turned the heavy chrome knob, and a blast of scalding hot water erupted from the rainfall showerhead above.
Stepping directly under the torrent, I closed my eyes as the heat immediately began to work out the tight, angry knots in my shoulders.
My head fell back, letting the water drench my hair, cascading down my face and chest as it washed away the physical remnants of my first day at the gym.
But it couldn't wash away the mental chaos of the day.
As I stood there, trapped in my own little sanctuary of steam, my mind naturally began to sift through the wreckage of the last two hours.
It was completely absurd. The unlikely turn of events that had led me here was staggering.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was a stagnant, predictable archivist sitting at a kitchen table in Mt.
Pleasant, drinking chardonnay and dreading a wedding invitation from a girl who had shattered my trust five years ago.
Now? Now I had somehow been thrown directly into the orbit of two gorgeous men, and one absolutely unmitigated, gorgeous asshole.
Dane. Just thinking his name made my blood simmer all over again.
He was a dick in the parking lot, and he was an even bigger dick in the Sweat Sanctuary.
The sheer arrogance it took to deliberately choose the machine right next to mine, to look at me with that acid-dripping disdain, and then completely wall me out with his oversized headphones.
It was infuriating. He had entirely ruined the peaceful, empowering fresh start I was supposed to have.
He’d turned my internal triumph into a petty, breathless battle of wills.
I reached for the wall-mounted dispenser and squeezed a generous dollop of thick, rich sandalwood body wash into my palms. I rubbed my hands together, building up a heavy, luxurious white lather, and began to spread the suds over my arms.
My hands hovered over my skin as Hunter’s voice echoed in my head.
I wholeheartedly disagree with your assessment.
An involuntary smile tugged at my lips. Hunter.
He was dangerously charming. The boyish, tousled dark hair, those piercing blue eyes that looked straight through my defenses, and that smooth, honey-over-steel voice.
He was a masterclass in effortless confidence.
But as I slid the slick, soapy lather down my collarbone and over the curve of my breasts, my thoughts took a sharper, darker, and infinitely heavier turn.
Because Brock.
I had seen him up close for the first time just minutes ago in the lobby.
A pillar of chiseled stone. My very first glimpse of him had been during the tour, looking through the glass of that private personal training room while he held that woman’s ankles.
He’d looked like a textbook hunk then, all bulging muscles, and tree-trunk thighs.
An elite athlete who had transitioned into a professional body sculptor.
But seeing him up close in the lobby? That had been an entirely different animal.
He hadn't said a word, but the gravity of his presence had made the air in the room feel suffocating.
And those eyes. Those intense gray eyes hadn't just looked at me. They performed an evaluation of me right then and there. He’d totally checked me out, his gaze tracking the line of my calves, the curve of my thighs, with a clinical precision that had made my entire body flush a violent, bright pink.
If you want to try free weights, he’s great at perfecting your form. Hunter’s recommendation suddenly felt like an invitation to something I’d be a fool to refuse.
I rinsed my hands, slicking back my wet hair as the steam in the stall grew thicker, trapping the heat until my skin felt hyper-sensitive, alive, and tingling. I leaned my hip against the wet tile wall, my breathing suddenly hitching as an image flashed vividly behind my eyelids.
What would a private session with Brock actually look like?
The fantasy bloomed instantly in the heat, vivid and intoxicating.
I imagined being alone with him in one of those secluded, glass-fronted training rooms at the end of the hall.
The door closed. The rest of the gym fading into a distant hum.
I would be holding a heavy iron barbell, my muscles trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I tried to maintain my posture.
And then, Brock would step in.
He wouldn't just tell me what to do; he would show me.
I could almost feel the weight of his large, calloused hands breaking through my defenses, settling firmly onto my hips to guide my alignment.
His grip would be possessive, the heat of his palms burning right through the thin fabric of my gym clothes.
He would lean in close, his broad chest pressing lightly against my back, his deep voice vibrating directly against the shell of my ear as he dictated my movements.
Drive through your heels, Jess. Let me take the weight.
A sudden rush of heat flooded low in my belly, a visceral, pooling ache that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the water. My breath caught in my throat as my clit pulsed hard.
Between the suds and the rolling steam, my body reacted with an intensity that left me tingling.
Guided by nothing but horny instinct, my wet, soapy hand trailed down from my neck, sliding over my breast and down across the flat plane of my stomach.
My fingers dipped lower, tracing the line of my hip, exploring the heightened, throbbing heat of my skin under the cover of the rushing water.
I let out a soft, ragged moan that was instantly swallowed by the rhythmic hum of the shower, my mind completely consumed by the imagery of those tatted arms wrapped tightly around me, pinning me down, perfecting my form in various delicious ways.
Heart racing, I found my clit. Already hard and swollen in ten seconds flat.
I stroked myself tentatively, teasing through the growing arousal snaking up my legs.
I was lost in a reckless, steamy sensory overload that I would never, ever admit to David but I also didn’t give a fuck.
What mattered most was coming down from this day that had been as surprisingly good as it was upsetting.
Right now, I wanted it to end on a high.
Just then, the sharp, piercing blare of my phone’s ringtone shattered the silence, echoing loudly from the mahogany locker just outside my stall. My fingers curled away from my pulsing heat, and I listened harder. Yes, it was definitely my phone.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
Only David’s specific, high-priority ringtone could pierce through a thick glass door, a wall of tiles, and a roaring rainfall showerhead.
He knew I was at the gym. He knew I was trying to turn my life around today.
If he was calling me right now, it meant he either had a catastrophic fashion emergency or he was dying for an immediate update on the voucher situation.
I gave my head a sharp shake, trying to dislodge the lingering, heavy images of Brock’s hands all over me.
I twisted the chrome handle with a jerky motion, killing the water.
The sudden silence in the stall was deafening, save for the persistent, muffled blare of my phone continuing to ring from the locker.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," I hissed to myself, my voice sounding tight and raspy in the enclosed space.