Page 18 of Giovanni
As we move toward the gym floor to focus on upper body exercises, I can sense the shift in our dynamic. The casual banter is still there, but there’s a new layer, a shared anticipation for the evening ahead. And while I’m still her trainer, responsible for watching over her form and technique, I’m also becoming something else—a friend, hopefully even more.
6
KACIE
My mind is reeling. We’re icing my ankle one minute, and Giovanni asks me out the next. Well, sort of. His quick backtrack to ‘cooking plan’ was almost as smooth as his recovery after getting caught staring a bit too long at my chest. The flush that crept up his neck told stories he couldn’t hide, and honestly, I found it endearing.
How long has it been since someone looked at me with that kind of desire? Like last time he dropped an innuendo, I didn’t back away, and I wasn’t going to this time. I wanted to bask in the feeling of an attractive younger guy looking at me as he did on Saturday and Monday.
The workout flew by despite my throbbing ankle. The story of running for the elevator and getting tripped by my briefcase strap was too ridiculous to tell him. But come hell or high water, I wasn’t missing my dedicated hour to see him. I’m even more happy to be here with him as he seems to be opening up to me. His smile flashes faster, his laugh is louder, and he throws in a couple of dance moves to distract me from the heavyweight he stacks on the machine.
I’m nearly about to collapse, pushing the last and heaviest set of my bench presses, when my arms falter. His thighs surround the sides of the bench, grabbing the bar to lift off me and putting his tight crotch within eyeshot. For a split second, I get a perfect view of that long shaft tucked to one side of his compression shorts when I see up the leg of his shorts.
“Holy shit,” slips past my lips, and I squirm, thinking about what that would feel like.
The last time I had a snake that size, I was in an orgasm coma for days. Blood surges to my privates at the memory of that efficient lover from long ago. I’ve had a few lovers since, but none as proficient and skilled as him. Indeed, Giovanni must have had some experience growing up with a thing that big.I’m so lost in my thoughts that I almost don’t register the ‘good girl’ that slips from his lips.
With the bar firmly racked, he offers a hand to help me sit on the end of the bench to catch my breath. As a workout reference guide, he’s logging stuff into my training app as he does every session in case I want to work out without him. I guarantee that’s never happening. His words nag at my mind long enough that I have to ask.
“Did you just say, good girl? Or am I hearing things?”
His flush is immediate. The reddening of his skin is an admission of his guilt.
“I did.”
His confession is swift, almost the same slip as the words themselves. His gaze holds mine for a few seconds, a strange tension coiling between us until he raises his shoulders, unsure what else to say.
Good girl.
No man has ever said that to me. The pragmatic and equalizing side of me hates it. How dare he call me a girl when I’m a woman. And an older woman at that. The judgment ofbeing called good or bad is as condemning as growing up in the southern Delta in the 1950s and saying you don’t attend church. It’s archaic and chauvinistic.
The treat and reward side of my brain loves it. Those two words hit the orbitofrontal cortex with a smack, releasing dopamine that skims through my system and collects at my core. The heat rising from between my thighs is too powerful not to make the association. If he were to whisper it to me in a bedroom, I might be convinced to do everything he says.
It’s really a conundrum. I hate it. I love it. Logically, I’m not exactly sure which side should win versus which side wants to win.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, squatting to where I sit taller than him.
His lowering himself to me is equally unsettling, and I’m not sure I like this either. Power plays are very common at work. They set up the dynamic in the opening statements of both attorneys, lob power back and forth throughout the trial, and fight for it during closing statements. All to realize we never had it in the first place since the true power resides with the jury.
But this isn’t a case to be tried or a courtroom to convince. This is him and I, not a battleground, and I don’t want it to be. I’ve fought enough to be heard, to be the smartest in the room, and come out on top. That’s why I walked into this gym, needing help—to relinquish control, be guided, and follow someone else’s lead in my fitness journey.
“Don’t be. I kind of like it.”
I surprise myself with the admission. Part of me revels in the reprieve from constantly being in charge, while another is wary of yielding too much.
His smile blooms in response to my words, and the tension dissolves. He offers a fist for a bump, a gesture of solidarity, ofequal ground. It’s friendly, affirming, and nothing like the power play I’m so weary of engaging with him. And “our thing.”
“So did I.”
His honesty is disarming. The wink he gives me as he stands is playful, a promise that this—whatever it is—is something shared, not one-sided. He extends a hand to help me up, and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet.
“I need to grab my stuff from my desk. Meet you at the front?”
There’s an undercurrent of something more in his voice, a hint of excitement, maybe even hope.
“Sure.”
As he walks away, I watch the easy sway of his stride and realize that this is precisely what I need. Not a power struggle, not another competition, but a partnership of sorts, a mutual support system.
