The Trainer's Client

"You look like you're calculating my body fat percentage, not enjoying the party."

I turned, caught off guard by the voice—low, amused, with a hint of something darker underneath. She was leaning against the bar, glass of champagne dangling from her fingers, wearing a red dress that hugged every curve like it had been poured on.

"Something like that," I said, letting my eyes travel down her body. "Though I was more focused on the muscle definition in your shoulders. You've been doing your deadlifts."

"Every Tuesday. You taught me well, Marcus."

Her name was Lena. She'd been my client for six months, and I'd spent six months trying not to think about the way she looked in yoga pants. Tonight, in that dress, with the office party buzzing around us and her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that had nothing to do with fitness—I stopped trying.

"You know," she said, stepping closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume, something floral and warm, "I've been thinking about your training methods. The way you correct my form."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Your hands on my hips. Your chest against my back when you spot me." She tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "I've been thinking about what else you could teach me."

My cock hardened instantly. I didn't even try to hide it.

"Lena—"

"There's a supply closet down the hall. I checked earlier. It locks."

She turned and walked away without looking back. I followed her like I had no choice in the matter—and maybe I didn't.

The closet was small, dark, filled with the smell of paper and cleaning supplies. She backed against the wall, pulled me in by the front of my shirt, and kissed me hard, her tongue sliding against mine. I groaned, my hands finding her waist, sliding down to grip her ass through the thin silk of her dress.

"God," she breathed against my mouth, "I've been wanting this for months. Every time you made me do another set, watching you in that tight shirt, the way your arms flexed when you spot me—"

"Shut up and let me fuck you."

She laughed, a low, dirty sound. "That's the idea."

I spun her around, pressed her against the wall, and pushed her dress up. She wasn't wearing panties. I ran my fingers along her slit, already slick and hot, and she gasped, pressing back against me.

"Fuck, Marcus—"

"You like that?" I slid two fingers inside her, felt her clench around them. "You like my fingers in your pussy while your coworkers are drinking out there?"

"Yes—God, yes—"

I dropped to my knees, pulled her hips toward me, and buried my face between her thighs. She tasted like sweat and champagne and pure heat. I licked her clit slowly, teasing, before sucking it between my lips. Her hand tangled in my hair, pulling me closer.

"Don't stop—please—"

I didn't. I ate her out until her thighs trembled and she came with a choked cry, her whole body shaking against the wall.

Then I stood, unzipped my pants, and pressed my cock against her wet heat.

"Tell me you want it."

"I want it. I want your cock inside me, Marcus. Fuck me."

I slammed into her in one stroke. She moaned, a loud, raw sound, and I clamped my hand over her mouth.

"Shh," I whispered, thrusting deep. "You want them to hear?"

She shook her head, but her eyes were wild, desperate. I pulled out almost all the way and drove back in, hard, and she bit down on my palm to keep from screaming.

I fucked her against that wall, fast and rough, the way I'd been imagining for months. Her ass slapped against my hips with every thrust. I could feel her clenching around me, getting tighter, and I knew she was close again.

"Come again," I growled in her ear. "Come on my cock."

She did—a violent, shuddering orgasm that made her sag against me. I kept going, pounding into her until my own release built, hot and urgent.

"I'm going to come inside you."

"Yes—fill me—"

I buried myself deep and came with a groan, my whole body tensing as I emptied into her.

We stood there for a moment, breathing hard, tangled together in the dark. I pulled out slowly, and she turned to face me, her dress still bunched around her waist, her lips swollen, her eyes soft.

"Same time next week?" she asked.

"No," I said, kissing her forehead. "Tomorrow. Your place. We have a lot of training to catch up on."

She laughed, and for the first time all night, it was a real laugh—light, warm, genuine.

"I'll bring the champagne."

"Bring yourself," I said. "That's all I need."