Page 19 of Gym With Benefits

If I were to hand-pick anyone to walk me through my first time…

“He’s one of our top coaches and a phenomenal lifter,” Hunter said, slapping him on the back.

“I hear you’re on a mission to incinerate some stress today.” Brock’s voice was a deep, quiet rumble that rolled through all the inappropriate nerve endings, waking up the parts of me I wished would quiet the fuck down already.

How the hell was I supposed to focus on my revenge body when my current body kept getting turned on by these guys?

“Stress. Incinerate.” I was surprised I hadn’t been reduced to communicating in a series of grunts and gestures.

“Well, I’ll leave you in his master hands,” Hunter said, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before going back to his station at the front desk.

Left alone with the obelisk, the gym floor seemed to shrink. “So, how long have you and Hunter worked together?”

“Three years,” he said, guiding me toward an adjustable bench. His broad palm on the small of my back did things to me that instantly made my face burn. “Known each other since we were kids, though. The guy’s like my brother. Sit here. Let’s start with a basic dumbbell press to gauge your baseline.”

My anxiety flared as I sat on the vinyl, the cold seeping into my thighs. “Just so you know, I usually stick to machines where a computer counts the reps. This is uncharted territory.”

Brock picked up a pair of fifteen-pound weights, setting them on my knees. I was suddenly too hot. Or too cold. I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that whenever that expanse of a granite chest came close to my face, my mouth went dry.

“Computers are great and all, but they don’t correct your form,” he said, expert hands collecting valuable data as they traced my posture. “Your body does that naturally. With the right guidance, of course.”

“I’m grateful for the help.”

“Besides, Hunter might’ve mentioned the upcoming wedding. High-pressure events require a regular physical outlet.”

A prickle of irritation twinged in my jaw. “I’m here to stop thinking about the wedding. And everything else.”

“Good.” He stepped behind the bench. “Now lay back, and bring the weights to your chest.”

I did as I was told, and also some other things he didn’t tell me to do. Like talk myself out of the unmitigated throb that started up between my legs when I realized how close he was standing over me. As I pressed the dumbbells upward, my elbows wavered under the unfamiliar strain.

“Shit.”

Large hands appeared from nowhere to envelope my wrists with a firm grip. Brock provided an unyielding, stabilizing anchor, his palms warm and rough against my skin.

“Slow down,” his voice came from right above my head. “Control the descent. Let your elbows drop past the bench.”

His fingers shifted, pressing into the muscles just below my collarbone to guide my alignment. The heat of his touch radiated through the thin fabric of my crop top, a visceral, electric sensation that made my breath hitch. Another micro-adjustment brought his chest to brush my head as he hovered over to monitor the angle.

I needed to calm the fuck down. This was nothing. Brock was a trainer. He did this all day long. Touched dozens of clients, analyzed hundreds of bodies, manipulated muscles with the detached precision of a surgeon. To him, my shoulders were just levers and pulleys. There was no reason to read anything into the deliberate pressure of his thumbs against my skin.

“Push from the chest, not your neck,” Brock instructed, his hands sliding down to support my upper arms. The friction of his palms against my bare triceps sent a shiver through me, the contrast of his massive strength against my straining muscles turned the air between us into something thick and charged. “Don’t rush the release.”

Oh, God.

He had no fucking idea what his choice of words was doing to me.

“You have to hold it at the peak for two seconds, then slowly let her down. There’s a rhythm to it.” He tore his eyes from my arms to look right at me when he added, “Like making love.”

Oh. my. fucking. God. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing to me…

“Am I—?” I cleared my throat. “Am I doing it?”

A faint smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “That’s it. Up… and down. Breathe. Don’t fight the resistance. Just relax. Open yourself up to it.”

My legs were set on either side of the bench, which I hated. I couldn’t clench my thighs together, and just hoped anyone walking by would assume the damp patch blooming there was nothing more than sweat from the workout.

When the final repetition landed, my arms were jelly, barely holding out through the drop.