18 - Jess
Jess
The bass from the sound system thudded through the gym, a Saturday morning crush of Lycra and clanking iron filling the main floor. Hunter’s biceps stretched the sleeves of his work t-shirt as he pushed a plastic cup of green sludge toward me.
“Drink it,” he said, his lips curling into an unhurried smile that reached his eyes. “It’s got spirulina and enough ginger to restart a dead engine. Just the pre-workout for weights.”
I took a sip, the burn of raw ginger hitting the back of my throat. “It tastes like lawn clippings.”
“That's the premium health profile you're experiencing,” he said, his fingers brushing against mine as he reached for his own cup. The casual contact sent a distinct spike of heat low in my abdomen, a vivid reminder of how those same fingers felt against my skin in his office a few days ago.
He left his pinky finger hooked over mine, a public declaration disguised as a lack of spatial awareness. Where Brock approached every encounter like an infantry assault, Hunter possessed a terrifyingly open, smitten quality that made my usual defenses feel clumsy.
“David's firm takes these mixers very seriously,” I said, leaning my hip against the bar to shield our joined fingers from view. “There'll be litigation partners drinking gin and tonic, discussing compliance structures. You'll need a suit jacket at the very least.”
“I own a jacket, Jess,” he laughed, his eyes tracking the line of my throat as if we weren’t surrounded by people bustling about. “You should wear your gym clothes though. I'd love to peel those tights off you again. Maybe find another desk to christen.”
My heart did a traitorous little flip. “I’m sure the offices will all be locked.”
“Then we'll find a dark corner in the coat check,” he replied, his gaze snagging on my mouth as I took another sip of my liquid grass. “You're beautiful when you come. Has anyone ever told you that?”
A group of powerlifters marched past, their loud arguments about protein synthesis breaking our private bubble, but Hunter didn't look away from me. He just winked, a playful confidence that left me feeling thoroughly exposed and incredibly warm between my thighs.
“We should probably keep things, you know, under wraps.” I pulled back, immediately regretting losing the feel of his fingers grazing mine. “Just in case.”
“In case what? I don’t care if people see.” And he pushed out his chest to prove it. “I’m the luckiest guy in the tri-state area. Fuck whoever has an opinion on that.”
“Hunter…” I dipped my head to shield my face as a gaggle of cardio queens waltzed by.
He gave a naughty little laugh, and waved me off. “Get out of here, you minx. Before Brock blames me for cutting into your workout time.”
“Shit. I almost forgot.”
“And tell him I said to go easy,” he called after me as I hurried to the Muscle Mansion. “I want you functional for our date.”
The temperature on the weight floor climbed ten degrees the second I stepped onto the rubber matting.
The ginger from Hunter’s lawn-clipping smoothie burned a steady line down my throat, but the real heat pooled much lower, fueled by the lingering memory of his touch.
I walked straight toward the squat racks, my pulse ragged.
Brock stood by the barbell, his back toward me as he checked the collar clamps. When he turned around, the air left my lungs.
“What the fuck happened to your face?”
A dark violet bruise bloomed across his left cheekbone, pulling the skin tight beneath his eye and fading into a sickly greenish-yellow near his jaw.
“It’s nothing.”
My stomach did a complicated flip. There was disbelief but also… arousal? Fuck, he was even hotter with the bruise. The discoloration destroyed his usual symmetrical perfection, giving him the rugged, unpolished edge of a dockworker who enjoyed a Saturday night brawl.
“It was Dane, wasn’t it?”
Brock reached up, his thumb tracing the swollen edge of the violet skin without a single flinch. “He’s an asshole but he packs a decent right hook.”
“I'm going to kill him,” I muttered, my fingers twitching with the urge to touch the mark myself. “Please tell me you hit him back.”
“I don't waste energy on children,” Brock said, his eyes darkening as his gaze drifted down to the damp spot on my sports bra where the green smoothie had spilled. “Dane plays his little games, and I deal with things my own way. Forget about him. You're here to work.”
He stepped into my space, his heat making my skin prickle. The contrast between Hunter’s gentle flirtation and Brock’s physical dominance locked my joints as I soaked it in.
“Load the bar,” he said, his face inches from mine. “Let's see if that ballsy attitude translates to your legs.”
We started with the barbell. Brock stood behind me as I dropped into the first deep squat, his hands hovering at my hips.
Each time I reached the bottom of the movement, the front of his thighs brushed against my ass, an intentional boundary that kept my form perfect and my mind completely derailed.
“Deeper,” he whispered in my ear, his hot breath stirring the loose hairs at my nape. “Control your descent. Drive through the heels, remember?”
I pushed up, my quads screaming under the strain, but the ache in my thighs felt secondary to the friction of his chest pressing against my shoulder blades.
My pussy throbbed with a wet, heavy pulse made worse by the secret I had.
He didn’t know about Hunter and me. Or that he’d played a part in how hard we’d both climaxed in that office.
The realization added an intoxicating layer of guilt to the heat flooding my skin.
By the third set, sweat licked my collarbone. Brock moved me to the leg press machine, loading the steel sleeves with forty-pound plates until the metal groaned.
“Sit,” he instructed simply.
I slid into the padded seat, my legs bent, knees wide apart to accommodate the wide stance he preferred. He dropped into a deep crouch between my feet, his hands wrapping firmly around my calves to guide my foot placement on the iron sled.
“Press it out,” he said, his eyes locked onto mine. “Keep the tension in the glutes. Don't lock your knees.”
I extended my legs, the plates clanking together with a satisfying thump.
As the weight descended again, bringing my knees toward my chest, Brock leaned forward.
His face lined up with my crotch, his broad shoulders wedged tightly between my inner thighs.
The warmth of his breath seeped through the thin fabric of my tights, targeting the spot that ached for his attention the most. He inhaled deeply, licking his lips as he let out a slow breath.
“You're shaking,” he teased, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Is the weight too much for you?”
“The weight’s fine,” I managed to get out, my breath coming in fractured hitches. “You're distracting.”
“Good.” He slid his hands from my calves, skimming the inside of my knees before settling on my lower thighs.
He applied a steady, downward pressure, forcing my legs to resist his hands as well as the iron sled.
“I want you distracted. I want to see how long you can hold it together before you break.”
I swallowed hard, trying to ignore how wet he made me.
He reached up, his thumb hooking briefly into the waistband of my tights, pulling the fabric away from my hip bone just enough to let the cool air hit my sweaty skin.
Then he let it snap back into place. The small action felt like an electric shock.
My pussy contracted, a fresh surge of arousal soaking through everything.
“Again,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to the damp stain between my legs. “Five more reps. If you’re good, I’ll see what I can do about your… little problem.”
I drove my feet into the iron plate, my muscles burning, my vision narrowing down to the intensity of his gaze and the dark violet mark on his cheekbone.
I wanted to bite it, then run my tongue over the tender skin.
Hear him hiss under me. I wanted to drag him into the training room, lock the door and close the blinds, and let him use that giant cock to fuck me against the mirrors until we both forgot our names.
Through the fog of my own arousal, a familiar irritation flared at the edge of my peripheral vision.
Dane stood by the dumbbell rack twenty feet away, a silver shaker cup gripped in his fist as he tracked my every movement with the obsessive focus of a prison guard.
He didn't even pretend to lift. He just watched Brock’s hands on my thighs, his jaw working into a furious knot.
I lost my footing slightly on the platform, the sled slipping a fraction of an inch before Brock’s hands clamped around my ankles, stabilizing the weight.
“Ignore him,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on me. “He wants the reaction. Don't give him the satisfaction of knowing he can disrupt your space.”
“He's a colossal dick,” I said, my heart hammering thanks to a volatile cocktail of anger and lust.
“He’s just mad he can’t get everything he wants,” Brock corrected, his thumbs rubbing small, soothing circles into my skin just above my ankles. “Concentrate on me. You’ve got this.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out the rest of the gym, blocking out Dane, blocking out everything except the heat of Brock’s torso between my knees and the grinding ache in my core.
I completed the final reps through brute force, the metal plates slamming home into the safety catches with a definitive crash that echoed off the walls.
My legs were jelly by the time it was over. Brock stayed in his crouch, his hands on my knees, chest rising and falling in sync with my own breathing.
“See? You should listen to me more often.”
The illusion of privacy shattered a second later with the squeak of expensive sneakers on the rubber floor.
Dane’s face twisted into a smirk as he looked from me to Brock. “Nice shiner. Looks like someone finally taught you how to take a punch.”