Page 39 of Gym Bros
I’m standing again, wondering if he’s gonna want me to go through the routine again. “Do you not like modeling?”
He scrunches his nose, and it has no right to be that cute. Not when he already has ten of the cutest toes I’ve ever seen. There’s got to besomethingwrong with him. “It’s not that I don’tlikeit. I like parts of it. I like the clothes, or pretending to be someone else…it’s just…”
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I say hastily. I don’t want it to seem like—what? That I want to get to know him better? That I’m interested? I’m not.
“I didn’t really have much of a childhood is all,” he concludes.
“Yeah, I guess not.”
He shrugs. “It’s a trade-off. I got to see the world. Most people probably can’t say that.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, go ahead and lie down. I wanna show you a different way to stretch your spine out.”
He directs me into something called the plow pose, which I have to actively work not to laugh about especiallywhen I see the position it puts him in. “This feels…vulnerable.”
He’s on his back with his legs stretched completely over his head, his toes on the floor, while I’m a mess of bent in half brawn that has gravity to thank for the fact that I even get close to what he’s doing.
He laughs, his face very red from the inverted position. He rolls out of the pose, then gets up again to try and tweak mine.
His hands on my bare legs give me instant goosebumps. “Too tight,” he mentions, before moving around to sit right where my ass is lifted off the floor.
For reasons I can only make an educated guess at, his hand on my lower back inthisposition feels a hell of a lot different than before.
“I think it’s your hip flexors,” he says. “Not your eight pack.”
“Why?”
“Well, you can obviously bring your knees to your chest as long as they’re bent.”
“I have to be able to do that for kicking,” I tell him.
“They’re still super tight, though,” he says, running his hands literally along the underside of my thighs. Over my shorts, but still, dangerously close to my ass.
Fuck me.
The boner that wants to emerge so badly threatens again.
“Does that feel okay?” he asks when he applies a firmer touch. Arub.
“Mmhm,” I manage.
“Understand I’m not a massage professional, but I’ve had enough of them in my life that I’m not completely clueless.”
He say this as if he doesn’t realize what he’s doing is a huge turn on, and that my balls are literallyright there.
He avoids touching them though, like he can tell exactly where they are, which makes me wonder if he can see themthrough my shorts. Jesus Christ. Breathing isn’t easy in this position with my lungs jammed halfway up my chest, but it’s fucking impossible with him touching me likethat.
Why I don’t stop him is anyone’s guess. Not respecting my own limits maybe.
His thumbs land on two tendons that desperately need it, and I groan. He grinds pressure into them, and I go lightheaded with how shallow my breathing gets.
Finally, he pats the backs of my thighs and helps me out of the position, urging a slow lowering of my spine and to let my legs follow.
My abs engage, and I shudder.
I check my shorts to make sure there’s not a huge bulge. I’m okay. Just a semi—not a full boner.
