Page 37 of Gym With Benefits

“Portrait of a politician of fire,” he breathed, hanging onto my every word.

“Constance kept the letters hidden behind the false backing of her scrapbooks. The handwriting is so tiny it requires a magnifying loop to decipher, but ‘R’ had a magnificent way of telling her exactly what she wanted to do to her once the legislative session adjourned."

"The OG locked-door romance," David sighed, a look of genuine reverence crossing his face. "See? That is history. That is text. This is infinitely better than Amberlame trying to explain the benefits of alkaline water to her five thousand bots."

The acid of the wine was beginning to lose its edge, transforming into a warm, thick laziness that uncoiled in my chest and softened the stiffness in my neck. The silence between us became comfortable again, the specific, high-friction gossip of the twentieth century replacing the toxic digital sludge we’d been wallowing in.

"Speaking of scandalous logistics," I said, tilting my head to look at him through half-closed eyes. "How did the late-night committee meeting go with Sloane and Antoine?"

David’s expression instantly converted into something entirely demure. He took a tiny, delicate sip of his wine, his gaze drifting up toward the ceiling fixture as if he were contemplating a particularly moving piece of Renaissance art.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, Jessica," he purred, though the sudden flush along his throat gave the game away. "We simply had a polite, professional exchange of ideas regarding the local hospitality industry."

"David."

"Fine," he erupted, a massive, face-splitting grin breaking through his composure. "Antoine’s hung like a horse and it was the best sex of my life.”

“David!”

“Sloane has this apartment near Logan Circle that looks like a Scandinavian design boutique,” he went on. “I got to see the living room and… that’s about it.”

“Oh my fucking God. David.” Every utterance of his name was dealt with varying degrees of fascination. He ate it up.

“That man’s stamina should be studied by the National Institutes of Health.”

I slapped his arm, bouncing in my seat so hard that wine spilled over the rim of my glass. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“Let’s just say that by 3 AM, the concept of personal boundaries had been thoroughly dismantled. I didn't get back to my own bed until the street sweepers were out."

I stared at him, a sudden, strange weight settling behind my ribs. The casual confidence of it. The ease with which he crossed lines that I’d spent years treating like high-voltage fences was both baffling and enviable. My mind flicked instantly to the pool from earlier, the memory of being sandwiched between Brock and Hunter. The heat of that double focus had left a permanent imprint on my skin, a lingering prickle that the air conditioning in the apartment couldn't seem to touch.

"Must be nice," I said into the rim of my glass. "To just... do the math and execute the play without an identity crisis."

David paused, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. His theatricality vanished in a second, replaced by that terrifyingly observant look that made him an exceptional roommate and a dangerous confidant. "Jess. What did you do?"

The wine had officially breached the perimeter of my good judgment. The secret had been burning a hole in my pocket since I left the gym on shaky legs, and the volume of suppressed adrenaline made my teeth ache.

"I slept with my trainer," I said.

The words came out in a rush, falling into the space between us like a live grenade.

The noise that came out of his throat was a high-pitched, strangled squeak that sounded like a stepped-on chew toy. He set his wine glass down so quickly a few drops sloshed onto the coffee table, completely ignored. He gripped his knees, his face turning a shade of pink I’d never seen before.

"You what?" he gasped, his voice an urgent whisper as if the walls of our apartment building were wired by the FBI. "When? How? Where? Give me the coordinates, Jessica, or I will perish on this rug."

"Monday night. In the locker room shower," I said, my face burning as the confession took shape in the room. "After the session. It just... happened."

"Oh, my God," David chanted, rocking back and forth on the couch. "The giant trainer. The one with the shoulders that require their own zip code. You actually did it. You broke the drought with a Category Five hurricane."

"He's... substantial," I admitted, my internal monologue scrambling to keep the specific details from spilling out of my mouth. "But that's not the problem."

David stopped rocking and his eyes narrowed, internal radar detecting the second drop before I even had the chance to phrase it. "There's a problem? How could there possibly be a problem? Does he have a third nipple?"

"No," I said, taking a big swallow of the wine to steady my hands. "It’s Hunter."

"Another boy? The plot thickens." The exuberant lilt in his voice would’ve been amusing if I weren’t technically in distress.

"We were in the pool today," I said, the memory making my stomach perform a slow, heavy loop.