Page 10 of Gym Bros
I’m two martinis in when Marcus joins me for my private dance party, and I’m ready to let loose. I’m choosing myself tonight. Choosing to enjoy this for exactly what it is: a sexy man enjoying every superficial inch of me.
The first time I chose to fuck Marcus was after dancing with him at a club in Milan. We were there for spring fashion week during my first year as his client. After the shows, we went out to a huge club, and he shocked the hell out of me by joining me on the dance floor.
He’d been behind me, his hands on my hips and occasionally running across my exposed abs. I thought he was only being friendly until my ass grazed his obvious erection. I’d jumped away to look at him in surprise.
He’d looked sheepish.
So I kissed him.
We went through the whole thing—he’d never done this before—he was sorry—he was so embarrassed.
When I kissed him again, though, he’d whimpered.
He doesn’t whimper anymore.
His hands on my hips tonight are confident and proprietary,knowing exactly where he wants me—grinding my ass against his hard length. He tongues and sucks my neck as we sway to the trance music in my dim living room.
I’m only wearing panties and a thin half-zipped hoodie. He’s got one hand on my chest, pinching my nipple and the other down the front of my underwear, working my cock to get it hard.
He’ll want me to come tonight. It might even be the case that I’ll have to come before he fucks me.
I shut my eyes, leaning back on him, trying to lose myself in the music, the memory of that first time, and the warmth of his mouth and hands when I let him use me.
“Talk to me,” I say, needing to hear how much he wants me. How beautiful he thinks I am. How grateful he is to touch me.
He obliges. Whispering filthy things in my ear about my body, the ways he wants to fill my mouth, my hole. He reminds me of the time he was so hard up for me after an outdoor editorial shoot in Toronto that he bent me over a literal bale of hay and fucked me in a barn. “You were radiant. I couldn’t help myself. You’re fucking extraordinary.”
Eventually, with those words and the image of my fingers grasping at that bale of hay in my head, I come in his hand, and he takes me on the living room floor.
I wake up in my bed.
Marcus is already dressed, sitting on the edge of the mattress, his fingers combing through my hair. “So fucking beautiful.”
I understand this isn’t affection he’s expressing. It’s appreciation. It’s meant to make me remember what he saw in me when he took me on as a client. He’s reminding me he believes in me. For all his faults, Marcus values the way I look for more than one reason. There’s some part of him that realizes there’s a person capable of good things inside the pretty package, too.
“You outta here?” I ask.
“In a minute. But I have a favor to ask.”
I scowl. I don’t want to get into another conversation about work. It’s too early, and I make it a point to do absolutely nothing I don’t want to do on Sundays.
He smooths out the lines between my eyes and says, “Nothing to do with modeling. I promise.”
“What, then?” I mumble.
“This might sound random but hear me out.”
“Okay.”
“My youngest son wants to be an MMA fighter.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
He grins. “I know. I know. He’s young. Over-indulged, I admit. We’re humoring him for now, but my point is he got hurt.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I try to control my amusement.
“He partially tore his hamstring about a month ago, and he wants to get back to training.”
