7 - Jess #2
It felt different today. I paused at the threshold, keeping my back pressed against the drywall while I craned my neck to peek around the thick panel of frosted glass.
The immediate entryway was clear, and I slipped inside, moving with a silent, hyper-alert vigilance more fitting for a cold war thriller than a luxury fitness center.
But after what happened last time— Dane’s beautiful, semi-erect dick shoved into my mind and sent an electric, horny jolt straight to my pussy.
“Not today,” I whispered, carefully navigating the row of mahogany lockers with intense caution. Every blind turning point was a potential hazard zone.
Thankfully, the way to the last empty locker was devoid of naked meatstacks, and I dropped my gym bag on the bench. First win for the day. Promising. Now all I needed was to go out there and discover that the Great Dane decided to skip the gym today.
“What the—?”
My hoodie and tights were missing. Instead, my fingers met the slick, highly compressed texture of midnight-blue nylon and a matching, armored sports bra. A neon pink sticky note fluttered out as I lifted them from my bag.
Time to stop hiding, Seymore. Go get 'em. – D.
"You sneaky motherfucker." I hit his contact and tossed my phone onto the bench. One ring was all it took before his voice floated into the empty locker room.
"I assume you've discovered the upgrade.”
"What did we agree about going through each other’s things?"
David didn’t give a shit about personal boundaries, and his little chuckle hammered home the point. “Do you have it on? Send me a picture.”
The tiny bra dangled from my finger. “I don’t have it on. Mainly because you forgot to pack the rest of the fabric.”
“Quit being a prude.”
“Quit going through my stuff!” I shot back. “What am I supposed to do now? I’m standing in the locker room with nothing to wear.”
“Correction, Jess, you have a full outfit right in front of you,” he said, putting on his grown-up voice. “Now get your sweet ass into those tights and send me a goddamn pic already.”
“I fucking hate you.”
“Are they on?”
“You owe me a month’s kitchen duty. I hope you know that.” I started with the tights. It was a tight, sweaty fight, the fabric gripping my calves and thighs like a second layer of skin.
“Well?”
“I’m pretty sure I clocked a full round of cardio just getting into the tights.”
"Premium compression tech,” he said, sounding mighty pleased with himself. “It holds, it molds, it doesn’t kiss and tell. Now the top."
“There is no top. All I see is a skimpy bra that looks about two sizes too small.”
“Miss Seymore, if you make me come all the way over there—”
“Okay, okay. Jesus.” I ripped off my shirt and bra, the sudden chill puckering my nipples into stiff peaks. “I want to hear you agree to the terms and conditions, though.”
David gave a drawn out sigh. “A month’s kitchen duty. In fact, I’ll do the dishes for a year if you throw in a few pics right now.”
I pulled the structured crop over my head, huffing and puffing like a little piggy in a fight for her life. “Who. even. designs. these… things? Aargh!”
The crop suctioned onto me from all sides, and I looked down to find the humiliating massacre of breast alignment that came with these types of things.
David mistook my stunned mortification for something else, and said, “What did I tell you, hm?”
“I look like a backdoor boob job victim.”
“Well, adjust and then tell me I was right,” he said with a laugh.
A tuck here, a nudge there, and my breasts settled into a perfectly perky display. I did a little shimmy to test it out and, yep, those babies didn’t fight back at all. “Fuck me.”
“Was I right or was I right?”
I wished I could slap that smugness out of his tone, but got distracted by my reflection in the narrow mirror attached to the wall. The midnight lines cut a surprisingly decent silhouette, making my waist look smaller and my posture instantly straighter.
“I look… hot.”
“Yes! Yes you goddamn do, Miss Seymore.”
“I look like someone who tracks her macronutrients.” And then, with the most basic bitch Valley Girl accent I could conjure up, “I’ll have a double-shot maca root with tiger nut milk. And blend that baby with a pinch of pink Himalayan sea salt harvested during a full moon.”
David’s laughter burst through my phone. “Don’t forget the ethically sourced algae.”
“Oh, never. God forbid I should start my workout without the essence of algae.” I pressed the back of my hand to my head in a feigned faint even though he couldn’t see me. He could sense it though, and laughed even harder.
"My taste is infallible," David said, simmering down with a satisfied sigh. "Now do a full structural assessment. Turn around."
I shifted ninety degrees to catch my profile in the mirror, and all jokes left the building, along with my dignity.
"Oh my God."
"Is the seam holding?"
"My ass is partitioned!"
The leggings featured a distinct, strategic ruching directly down the center seam. A deliberate design feature that isolated and hoisted my glutes into two perfectly rounded, highly defined spheres.
“Talk to me, Jess,” he goaded from the other end of the line, knowing full well what the fuck was going on.
I couldn’t stop gawking. "There is a canyon. A literal topographical event. Everyone is going to be looking straight at my ass and nothing else."
"Ah, the poetry of the honeycomb scrunch," David purred, triumphant. "You're welcome. Now stop hiding the assets and go lift. And don’t forget to send me pi—"
I smashed the red circle that ended the call, hands shaking a little from the jump in my heartrate. The working out part hadn’t even started yet. What the fuck was he thinking? How was I going to pull this off out there?
“Ducks on a pond, Jess. Butterflies in a field.” My eyes dropped closed and I took a few measured breaths, repeating the mantra.
After a couple of seconds, I’d mustered enough courage to do the thing. The pocket on my leggings was a nice surprise, and I slid my phone into it, earphones slung around my neck. I had interests, and I had a life. And I wasn’t going to let a little honeycomb whatever get in the way of that.
I marched for the locker room door with purpose, but before I could make a grab for it, it swung open.
A wall of tailored charcoal wool and the scent of smoke and leather slammed into me. I stumbled back a step. Dane’s jaw set in a rigid line of zero fucks, seemingly unbothered by the impact.
“Look where you’re going, asshole.”
His gaze dropped from my face and took a lethal tour down the compressed length of contoured engineering I’d squeezed into. The poker face remained untouched, but the fiery glint in his eye proved my roommate’s point a thousand times over.
“If I remember correctly, you’re the one who likes to look.” His mouth twitched with the start of a grin that didn’t quite happen.
I made to push past him, but he mirrored my sidestep to block my path all over again. Childish dick.
“Get out of my way.”
“Stay out of mine,” he countered, stepping closer instead of backing off. “Or find a different gym.”
“This is a public facility. You don’t get to—”
“I know people. I can have your membership revoked before you finish your next set if you insist on ruining my workouts.”
“Y—you can’t do that.” But my resolve faltered under the force of his arrogance and that threat rolled into one. “I’m not the grade-A dick in this equation.”
Dane’s fingers went to his belt, unbuckling the leather with a fluid, dismissive click before reaching for his pants. “Speaking of dicks... are you just going to stand there again, or can I actually have some privacy this time?”
Ugh. The man was a pus-filled toe blister.
The snag of his zipper was enough to get my feet moving. I bolted out of the locker room so fast my hair flew out behind me. And as the door swung shut, I was sure I heard him laughing.
My body was still thrumming with the after-effects of Dane The Prick when I reached the Muscle Mansion. Now I had Monday work stress and, well, the other kind of stress to get rid of.
The free-weight section resembled a sprawling iron foundry, loud with the clanking of steel and low grunts of men moving immense amounts of mass.
Standing on the perimeter, the overwhelming array of dumbbells and specialized racks offered no clues on where to begin.
Or what to do once I did. Between my partitioned ass and prominent chest, there was a spotlight on my definite lack of a plan.
“So you took my advice...” Hunter materialized at my elbow, his gaze lingering on something behind me.
I didn’t need any guesses to know what that was.
His face split into an easy grin when he looked back up.
“This is Brock. I told him it was your first time, and he was generous enough to take time out of his packed schedule to show you the ropes.”
“Hey.” Brock’s mass loomed over us. Up close, his presence possessed a dense, solid gravity that pulled me in.
If I were to hand-pick anyone to walk me through my first time…
“He’s one of our top coaches and a phenomenal lifter,” Hunter said, slapping him on the back.
“I hear you’re on a mission to incinerate some stress today.” Brock’s voice was a deep, quiet rumble that rolled through all the inappropriate nerve endings, waking up the parts of me I wished would quiet the fuck down already.
How the hell was I supposed to focus on my revenge body when my current body kept getting turned on by these guys?
“Stress. Incinerate.” I was surprised I hadn’t been reduced to communicating in a series of grunts and gestures.
“Well, I’ll leave you in his master hands,” Hunter said, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before going back to his station at the front desk.
Left alone with the obelisk, the gym floor seemed to shrink. “So, how long have you and Hunter worked together?”