12 - Jess
Jess
The pool room was filled with the chemical bite of chlorine and the flat, mineral dampness of stone.
The turquoise water sat as a still, glassy plane until Hunter cut through it, his movements silent and precise.
I stood on the edge in a generic black one-piece catered for by a generous membership perk, feeling the cool draft from the vents hit the backs of my thighs.
Hunter surfaced at the edge, slicking his hair back with both hands. His eyes were bright and welcoming. "The water's perfect. Forget the weights today. You need buoyancy."
I slid in, the heat of the pool rising to meet me. The transition from the dry, abrasive stress of the museum to this weightless suspension made my lungs expand. Hunter didn't move away. He stayed within arm's reach, the water rippling between our chests.
"About the other night," I said. The words felt clumsy, bobbing like debris in the quiet room.
Hunter tilted his head, his expression a blank slate of polite confusion. "The gym was busy. I remember a lot of nights, Jess."
"The shower, Hunter. You walked in. You saw us."
He let out a short, huffing laugh, his shoulders rising above the surface.
The water beaded on his skin, catching the overhead lights.
"I saw two people who looked like they were finally solving a very loud problem. I told you, I’m a counseling student.
I deal in human impulses. If nobody is getting hurt, then what’s the harm? "
He reached out, his hand submerged. I felt his palm brush against my waist, a ghost of a touch through the water that sent a different kind of heat through my core.
"Face down," he directed. "Show me the freestyle. Careful not to over-rotate."
I pushed off, the water rushing past my ears.
I focused on the blue tiles at the bottom, but my skin was hyper-aware of where he was.
Every time I turned my head to breathe, he was there, pacing me from the side.
When I reached the wall, he was waiting.
He reached out and caught my wrists, stopping my momentum.
"Your stroke is too tight," he said. He moved closer, his legs tangling with mine beneath the surface.
The friction of his hair-dusted thighs against my knees was a jolt.
He moved behind me, his chest pressing against my back to guide my arms through the motion.
"You’re fighting the water. You have to let it carry you. "
His hands slid down my upper arms to my elbows, his touch light but insistent.
The proximity was a sensory trap. I could feel the hard, lean plane of his stomach against my spine.
My mind flashed to David in the club, the way he had moved between his friends with that effortless grace.
He’d spoken about sharing, about the lack of boundaries, and here I was, still humming from Brock’s touch while Hunter’s hands mapped my alignment.
"Loosen up," Hunter whispered into the shell of my ear.
I flinched, my heart kicking against my ribs. "What?"
I turned in his arms, the water swirling around us. For a second, I was certain he’d seen the images of David and Brock flashing behind my eyes.
"Your shoulders," he clarified, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
He reached up, his thumbs digging into the knots of tension at the base of my neck.
The pressure was perfect, a methodical dismantling of my stress.
"You’re carrying the whole Smithsonian in your traps.
Just be in the pool, Jess. Be here with me. "
The water felt thicker, more intimate. I yielded to his touch, the buoyancy of the pool making it easy to forget why I should be walking away. He didn't let go. His fingers continued their work, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.
Hunter’s hands tightened on my waist, pulling me through the resistance of the water until the heat of his thighs pressed against mine.
I placed my palms on his chest, the wet skin slick and firm, his heart drumming a steady, invitations-only rhythm against my fingertips. The air between us was a static charge.
"A swimming lesson. Fun."
The voice cut through the humidity and we both turned.
Brock stood at the edge of the blue, his shadow stretching across the surface.
He pulled his shirt over his head, the muscles of his back rippling with raw power, and launched himself into the deep end.
I let out a startled squeak as the resulting splash hit my face.
He surfaced between us, shaking his head to send droplets of water flying from his hair. He looked so good it made my pussy tighten underwater. Every muscle in his torso popped, the light catching the hard ridges of his abs and the deep, V-shaped lines disappearing into his trunks.
"Hunter’s a counselor, Jess. He’s good for a chat," Brock said, his hand sliding over the small of my back. He drew me away from Hunter and toward his own solid mass. "I’m the one who knows how to optimize your output."
The water between us was a conductor. But Hunter hadn’t let go of my waist. He pulled me back.
The friction of my swimsuit against his bare skin generated a charge that left me torn in two.
He explained the mechanics of a proper kick, his voice a low vibration that I felt more in my chest than my ears.
Then he reached down, his arm a submerged shadow, and caught my ankle.
His fingers traced the bone before sliding up to the sensitive hollow behind my knee, tilting my leg to show me the angle.
"You have to stay fluid, Jess," he murmured. "Don't fight the resistance. Melt into it."
"She’s too low in the water." Brock’s voice was an intrusion.
He moved into the space behind me, his proximity a wall of heat.
He reached around my ribs, his hands splayed across my stomach to hoist me higher toward the surface.
The contrast was a sensory riot. Hunter’s light, teasing grip on my leg and Brock’s crushing, proprietary weight against my back.
I was a live wire between them. As Brock lifted me, my backside pressed into the rigid bulge of his shorts. He didn't flinch or pull away. He held me there, his thumbs tracing the line of my ribs, while Hunter refused to relinquish my leg.
“I’ve never been much of a swimmer,” I said, and gave a short laugh.
Brock’s thumb began a slow, rhythmic circle on the inside of my thigh. “You have the makings of one, that’s for sure.”
"You're restricting her lungs. Let her breathe." Hunter moved closer, keeping me wedged between them. I didn’t see how any swimming could happen in this tug of war.
"I'm keeping her stable," Brock countered. He slid one hand lower, his palm cupping the curve of my hip and pulling me harder against the throbbing ridge of his cock. "She needs a coach, not just someone to play with her in the shallow end."
He passed me back to Hunter with a deliberate slide of his hands.
Hunter caught me by the shoulders, his thumbs grazing the straps of my suit, and I sure as fuck didn’t miss the way his eyes zeroed in on my stiff nipples peaking against the thin black fabric of my swimsuit.
I was being mapped, claim after claim laid on my skin as they traded me back and forth, their fingers lingering on my calves, my waist, the slope of my neck.
I looked from Brock’s dark, smoldering intensity to Hunter’s bright, competitive hunger. The reality of it hit me with the force of a tidal wave. This wasn't a training session. This was a hunt. And I was the only prize in the room.
The tension pressed in on me from every angle.
Every accidental brush of a hip or a chest felt like a promise.
Beneath the turquoise surface, the proximity was doing things to my anatomy that the museum archives never could.
My pussy was a thrumming, slick ache, reacting to the volume of testosterone hemmed in by the tile walls.
I could see the unmistakable, rigid thickening in both their shorts now as they bumped against me.
A double-barreled reminder that this wasn't just a workout.
"You're getting distracted, Jess," Hunter teased, his fingers grazing my ribs.
"She's fine," Brock’s gaze burned into mine. "She just needs the right motivation. Five laps. Whoever wins gets to pick the next session's focus."
"And the loser?" Hunter asked, a competitive glint in his blue eyes.
“You guys are taking this way too—”
"The loser stays out of the way and lets me do my job."
They lined up at the wall, a display of masculinity that made my throat dry. The camaraderie was still there, but it was coated in a layer of unchecked dominance.
"Go!" I yelled, slapping the surface of the water with my flat palms.
Splashes rose up in waves. They were a blur of tan skin and churning white foam.
Hunter tried to hook Brock’s ankle on the first turn, a dirty move that earned a muffled curse and a splash that nearly hit the ceiling.
Brock responded by cutting off Hunter’s line, his powerful shoulders throwing up a wake that forced Hunter to fight for air.
They were neck and neck, a brutal, graceful race of bone and grit, each stroke a bid for my attention.
The glass double doors at the far end of the deck opened with a pneumatic hiss that killed the competitive energy instantly. I’d totally forgotten that this was a public space filled with public people trying to go about their fitness regimens.
Dane stood in the frame, his arms folded across his chest. He didn't step into the pool area, but the look on his face didn’t need a close-up.
"Hunter," he said, his voice flat. "The nutrition bar is backed up to the cardio floor and the front desk is a ghost town. What the hell are you doing?"
Brock and Hunter slowed their pace, the race dissolving into a subdued crawl back to the edge. Dane didn't wait for an explanation. He gave the three of us a slow shake of his head—a silent indictment of the goofing around—and stalked back into the lobby. The bubble of the pool room evaporated.
“Always a bag of fun, that guy,” Hunter muttered with a laugh as he pulled himself out of the pool.
Brock and I followed, the transition back to gravity making my limbs feel like lead.
The water ran off the guys in glistening sheets, pooling on the tiles around their feet.
Hunter reached for a towel, rubbing it over his hair before turning to me.
The competitive fire was gone, replaced by that soft, attentive focus that seemed reserved for my messes.
"Did it work?" he asked. "Has your bad day been cured?"
I looked at him, then at Brock, who stood a few feet away, his chest still heaving from the exertion. After searching around for the reason I needed to be cured, I came up empty. All that existed was the texture of wet skin and hands grasping at me under the water.
"Yeah," I admitted, my voice a thready whisper. "I’m pretty sure it worked.”
Hunter’s mouth curved into a satisfied smile. He reached out, his thumb grazing the damp skin of my shoulder with a touch that sent a bolt of heat curling around my clit. "Good. That was the goal."
As I stood there, caught between the two of them in the quiet, echoing room, a realization hit me with more force than the water. The pull toward Brock was a known quantity now, a hunger that had already been fed once. But the pull toward Hunter was just as sharp, just as undeniable.
I wasn't just into the trainer. I was into his best friend, too.