7 - Jess #3
“Three years,” he said, guiding me toward an adjustable bench.
His broad palm on the small of my back did things to me that instantly made my face burn.
“Known each other since we were kids, though. The guy’s like my brother.
Sit here. Let’s start with a basic dumbbell press to gauge your baseline. ”
My anxiety flared as I sat on the vinyl, the cold seeping into my thighs. “Just so you know, I usually stick to machines where a computer counts the reps. This is uncharted territory.”
Brock picked up a pair of fifteen-pound weights, setting them on my knees. I was suddenly too hot. Or too cold. I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that whenever that expanse of a granite chest came close to my face, my mouth went dry.
“Computers are great and all, but they don’t correct your form,” he said, expert hands collecting valuable data as they traced my posture. “Your body does that naturally. With the right guidance, of course.”
“I’m grateful for the help.”
“Besides, Hunter might’ve mentioned the upcoming wedding. High-pressure events require a regular physical outlet.”
A prickle of irritation twinged in my jaw. “I’m here to stop thinking about the wedding. And everything else.”
“Good.” He stepped behind the bench. “Now lay back, and bring the weights to your chest.”
I did as I was told, and also some other things he didn’t tell me to do. Like talk myself out of the unmitigated throb that started up between my legs when I realized how close he was standing over me. As I pressed the dumbbells upward, my elbows wavered under the unfamiliar strain.
“Shit.”
Large hands appeared from nowhere to envelope my wrists with a firm grip. Brock provided an unyielding, stabilizing anchor, his palms warm and rough against my skin.
“Slow down,” his voice came from right above my head. “Control the descent. Let your elbows drop past the bench.”
His fingers shifted, pressing into the muscles just below my collarbone to guide my alignment.
The heat of his touch radiated through the thin fabric of my crop top, a visceral, electric sensation that made my breath hitch.
Another micro-adjustment brought his chest to brush my head as he hovered over to monitor the angle.
I needed to calm the fuck down. This was nothing.
Brock was a trainer. He did this all day long.
Touched dozens of clients, analyzed hundreds of bodies, manipulated muscles with the detached precision of a surgeon.
To him, my shoulders were just levers and pulleys.
There was no reason to read anything into the deliberate pressure of his thumbs against my skin.
“Push from the chest, not your neck,” Brock instructed, his hands sliding down to support my upper arms. The friction of his palms against my bare triceps sent a shiver through me, the contrast of his massive strength against my straining muscles turned the air between us into something thick and charged. “Don’t rush the release.”
Oh, God.
He had no fucking idea what his choice of words was doing to me.
“You have to hold it at the peak for two seconds, then slowly let her down. There’s a rhythm to it.” He tore his eyes from my arms to look right at me when he added, “Like making love.”
Oh. my. fucking. God. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing to me…
“Am I—?” I cleared my throat. “Am I doing it?”
A faint smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “That’s it. Up… and down. Breathe. Don’t fight the resistance. Just relax. Open yourself up to it.”
My legs were set on either side of the bench, which I hated. I couldn’t clench my thighs together, and just hoped anyone walking by would assume the damp patch blooming there was nothing more than sweat from the workout.
When the final repetition landed, my arms were jelly, barely holding out through the drop.
“Let me take it.” Brock wrapped his hands around the weights to pause my struggle. “Trust me. I’ve got you.”
He took the weights from my hands, and I sat up with a muffled whimper, my skin tingling in all the places he’d touched me.
“I’m pretty sure we just trauma bonded.” I gave a breathless laugh, averting my eyes as I tucked an errant lock of hair behind my ear.
His eyes crinkled, but he was mostly the same picture of professionalism as ever. “I’m pretty sure drinks have to be involved for that to be a thing.”
“I’ll bankroll your algae smoothie later. Make it official.”
The facade slipped just enough, and Brock loosened up with a laugh. I may not have been blessed with the impossibly svelte athleticism of the other women here, but I could make him laugh.
“You should finish up on the treadmill,” he said, stepping over to the barbell rack. “Get the blood moving before your muscles tighten up.”
The suggestion brought an immediate visual of the locker room door swinging inward.
“No treadmills today.” The suggestion brought the memory of Dane in the locker room flooding back. “I have a sudden, pressing desire to remain hidden in the corners.”
Brock tucked a twenty-five-pound plate under his arm, a deep laugh vibrating in his chest. “You’re talking about Dane, I take it.”
“He told me he could have my membership revoked,” I admitted, watching him slide the iron onto the sleeve of the bar. “Can he actually do that? Or is he just a garden-variety psychopath full of empty threats?”
Amusement flickered across Brock’s face, though he kept his focus on adjusting the collar lock. “He likes to throw his weight around. Learned behavior from his job, I guess. But mostly he’s the type of guy you take with a pinch of salt.”
“I’ll need a whole vat of it.”
A chuckle broke from him then, relaxed and genuine. He gestured toward the barbell, stepping in close to guide my stance. “Step up. Feet under your hips. Let’s do some bent-over rows.”
A fresh whiff of his peppermint gum cloaked me as I stepped back into his orbit.
I bent at the waist and reached for the knurled steel.
Brock’s broad hands clamped onto my hips, holding my pelvis back.
His touch possessed an incredible solidity.
The heat of his palms burned through the tight nylon, forcing a sudden, chaotic rhythm into my pulse.
“Keep your spine long,” he murmured, his breath brushing the nape of my neck. “Pull the bar toward your belly button, squeezing the shoulder blades.”
I hauled the steel upward, my brain stalling as his hands slid from my hips to the small of my back, monitoring the muscle contraction.
He’s a coach, I reminded myself, eyes locked on the floor. He repositions human meat for a living.
But the fiery weight of his fingers felt distinctly personal.
“What, uh, what kind of job requires your default setting to be Asshole?” I asked. Distraction was my only hope of making it out of this in one piece.
Each time I squatted, my ass brushed against his crotch. The man had more restraint than me. He didn’t seem to notice it at all.
“Dane’s a fixer for the D.C. political elite,” he replied, taking on a confidential register as I completed another rep. “He spends his days cleaning up corporate scandals and keeping senators out of prison.”
“Wait, seriously?”
He nodded. “Arrogance is a survival trait in his world. He just forgets how to turn it off sometimes.”
“Sounds like you’re covering for him,” I said with a soft, strained laugh. These weights were for real, and him pressing up against me didn’t help things.
“Well, we’re kind of friends.”
I paused mid-drop, my arms quivering. “Kind of?”
“Since Hunter and I started working here.” He placed the full weight of his thigh between my legs and tapped each of my legs. “Open your stance a bit more. You’re too tight. It’ll ruin your balance if you’re not careful.”
He was ruining my underwear with that move. Not exactly careful on his part.
But I inched my feet further apart before going through with the squat, and instantly felt the increased pull in my muscles.
“That’s it.” His whispered encouragement throbbed between my legs. “You have to go deep to feel it all.”
Phenomenal lifter. That’s what Hunter had called him. I imagined him now, lifting me into all kinds of positions as he talked me through it in that same deep whisper.
“Nicely done, Jess.”
The bar met the floor with a dull thud. I straightened, my muscles burning and my face flushed from more than just exertion. “Thank you for being nice enough to lie to me.”
“No, I mean it. You have a great foundation,” he said, and pulled a towel off the bar beside him. I made to take it, but Brock held on. “You just need someone to show you how to use it.”
I bit my lips to keep from moaning out loud, but there was nothing I could do about the weakness in my knees.
“Um, I think I’m gonna hit the pool for some cardio,” I said, trying hard not to stare at his gym shorts. To see if there was any sign this was anything more than just a workout to him. The amount of rubbing was significant to say the least.
“I should stretch you first.”
My gaze snapped up. “What? No. No, that’s totally fine. I’m— I’m all loose and limber, thanks. I mean—”
“That’s okay. But there’s no getting out of it next time,” he said, taking back the towel. “My magic hands have a thing for working out tension.”
The undercurrent between us was palpable. Surely he wasn't flirting. This was the standard motivational script designed to keep clients booking sessions.
Yet, as I headed for the pool, the thought of returning to my solitary routine felt incredibly unappealing.
“Is it possible to book a private session with you?” The question slipped out before my internal filter could stop it. “For help with my form. Obviously.”
Brock’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile that demolished my self-preservation. “I thought you’d never ask.”