Chapter 1: The routine
The air in the gym was a familiar cocktail of sweat, disinfectant, and industrial-grade air freshener trying and failing to mask the scent of human exertion. Eli Thorne wiped down a treadmill, his own reflection ghosting the console’s dark screen. He saw the softness in his jawline, the kind hazel eyes that his mom always said were his best feature, and the lean but undefined frame he’d carried since high school. It was a body that existed, that functioned, but it didn’t command a room. It didn’t turn heads.
Unlike his.
Marcus Cole was a monument to discipline, a sculpture of carved muscle currently guiding a new client through a set of deadlifts. His voice, a low, steady rumble, cut through the thumping bass of the workout playlist. “Drive through your heels, Sarah. Not your back. Your back is a rigid lever. Feel it in your hamstrings.” His own hamstrings, corded and defined, strained against his shorts as he demonstrated the perfect form.
Eli’s throat went dry. He’d been working at Flex for three years, and for three years, he’d watched Marcus. He’d cataloged the way his dark, cropped hair clung to his damp forehead, the intensity in his green eyes when he was focused, the surprising gentleness in his hands when he corrected a client’s posture. It was a quiet, hopeless crush that lived in the pit of Eli’s stomach.
Today felt different. A restlessness had been brewing in him for weeks. The casual dating apps, the friendly but meaningless exchanges with members, the comfortable shapelessness of his life—it all felt like wearing someone else’s clothes. He wanted to feel something solid under his own skin.
As Sarah finished her set and moved on, Eli found his feet carrying him across the rubberized floor before his courage could fail.
“Hey, Marcus.”
Marcus turned, a towel slung over one shoulder. A flicker of something—surprise?—crossed his face before it settled into its usual professional mask. “Eli. What’s up? One of the protein shake fridges acting up again?”
“No, nothing like that.” Eli shoved his hands into the pockets of his gym shorts. “I, uh… I was wondering if you had any openings for a new client.”
Marcus’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. He looked Eli up and down, not with judgment, but with a trainer’s assessing gaze. “You want to train with me?”
“Yeah. I’m tired of… this.” Eli gestured vaguely at his own body. “I’m lean, I know that. But I’m soft. I want to… I don’t know. Get hard.”
The word hung in the air between them, charged and heavy. Marcus’s eyes darkened, the green deepening like a forest shadow. He was silent for a long moment, just looking at Eli, and Eli felt utterly seen, every insecurity and vague yearning laid bare.
“You have a good base,” Marcus said finally, his voice lower than before. “Good bone structure. Shoulders are decent. You’re prime for growth. But my methods aren’t for the faint of heart, Eli. I don’t do half-measures.”
“I don’t want half-measures.”
Another beat of silence. Then, a slow, sharp smile spread across Marcus’s face. It wasn’t his usual polite client-smile. This was something else, something predatory and thrilling. “Okay then. Your shift ends at four, right? Meet me on the main floor at four-fifteen. Don’t eat a heavy lunch.”
The gym was nearly empty at quarter past four, the late afternoon sun slanting through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Eli stood by the squat rack, his heart already hammering against his ribs.
Marcus walked over, a clipboard in hand, his demeanor completely shifted. The friendly coworker was gone, replaced by ‘The Machine.’
“We start with legs,” Marcus said, no preamble. “Legs are your foundation. Everything builds from there. You skip leg day, you’re building a house on sand. Understand?”
Eli nodded, his mouth too dry to speak.
The next hour was a descent into a special kind of hell. Marcus was a relentless, demanding taskmaster. He guided Eli through barbell back squats, his hands firm on Eli’s hips and back, correcting his alignment with a touch that burned through the fabric of his shirt.
“Deeper,” Marcus would growl, his breath hot against Eli’s ear as he strained under the weight. “You’ve got another two inches in you. I know you do.”
Then came the lunges. Walking lunges across the length of the gym and back. Eli’s quadriceps screamed with a fire he didn’t know was possible. His vision spotted at the edges.
“Don’t you fucking quit on me, Eli,” Marcus commanded, walking beside him. “Your body will lie to you. It will tell you it’s done. It’s not. It’s just getting started.”
He was close, so close Eli could smell the clean sweat on his skin, see the individual stubbled lines of his jaw. The pain was excruciating, but beneath it, a strange, wild euphoria began to bloom. This was attention. Real, intense, undiluted focus. And from Marcus. It was intoxicating.
They moved to the leg press. Marcus loaded the sled with an intimidating number of plates.
“This is it,” Marcus said, his voice a low, intimate rumble in the empty gym. “This is where you find out what you’re made of. You push until you literally cannot push another time. I’ll be right here.”
Eli got into position, his body trembling with fatigue. He pushed. The weight was monstrous. He grunted, his face contorting.
“That’s it,” Marcus urged, kneeling beside the machine, his face level with Eli’s. His green eyes were blazing. “Let me hear it. Use the pain. Fucking own it.”
With a final, guttural shout that tore from the depths of his soul, Eli forced the sled back to the start. He collapsed, his chest heaving, every muscle fiber vibrating with agony.
He expected a ‘good job.’ He didn’t get it.
Instead, Marcus looked at him, his gaze dropping to Eli’s mouth, then back to his eyes. The energy between them snapped, taut and electric. The professional distance evaporated, leaving something raw and naked in its place.
“You’re fucking beautiful when you’re broken down,” Marcus whispered, the words rough and utterly unexpected.
Before Eli could process it, Marcus stood, offering a hand. Eli took it, and Marcus pulled him to his feet with effortless strength. Eli stumbled, his legs buckling, and fell against Marcus’s solid chest.
It was like hitting a brick wall. A warm, living, incredibly muscular brick wall.
Marcus didn’t let go. His hands, which had been all business an hour before, slid around Eli’s back, holding him upright. Eli could feel every defined ridge of Marcus’s abdomen through their thin shirts. He could feel the rapid, heavy thud of Marcus’s heart.
“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” Marcus breathed, his voice thick with a confession that seemed ripped from him.
And then he kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming. A hungry, desperate clash of lips and teeth and tongue. Marcus tasted of coffee and sheer, unchecked want. Eli moaned into it, his hands fisting in the sweaty fabric of Marcus’s tank top, his body, wrecked and exhausted, coming alive in a whole new way. This was the challenge he’d been craving. This was the solid ground.
Marcus broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “My office. Now.”
It wasn’t a question. Eli just nodded, his brain short-circuiting.
Marcus half-led, half-carried him past the weight racks and into the small, windowless office. He kicked the door shut with his foot, and the lock clicked into place with a sound of finality. The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp, the air filled with the scent of Marcus—muscle rub, clean sweat, and man.
Marcus backed him against the closed door, his body caging Eli in. His hands came up to frame Eli’s face, his touch surprisingly tender now, a contrast to the fury of the kiss.
“Tell me to stop,” Marcus murmured, his lips tracing the line of Eli’s jaw. “You have to say it, Eli. Or I won’t be able to.”
“Don’t stop,” Eli gasped, arching into him. “Please, don’t stop.”
That was all the permission Marcus needed. His control shattered. He crushed his mouth to Eli’s again, one hand tangling in Eli’s brown hair, tugging his head back to deepen the kiss. His other hand slid down Eli’s chest, over his trembling stomach, and palmed him through his shorts. Eli was hard, painfully so, and he bucked into the touch with a broken cry.
“So fucking responsive,” Marcus growled against his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. He made quick, brutal work of their clothes, shoving Eli’s shorts and briefs down to his ankles, his own following. The cool air of the office hit Eli’s feverish skin, followed by the blazing heat of Marcus’s naked body.
Marcus spun him around to face the door, pressing against him from behind. Eli’s hands flattened against the cool wood, his legs still shaking from the workout. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and more turned on than he’d ever been in his life.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” Marcus rasped in his ear, his cock, thick and heavy, sliding between Eli’s thighs. He reached around, his hand slick with spit, stroking Eli roughly. “Seeing you every day. That kind smile. Those fucking eyes. I wanted to ruin you.”
Eli’s head fell forward against the door. “Then ruin me.”
Marcus spat into his hand again, wetting himself, before pressing the thick head of his cock against Eli’s entrance. There was no preparation, no finesse, just a slow, inexorable, burning pressure that stole the air from Eli’s lungs.
“Fuck… Marcus…” Eli choked out, his nails scraping the door.
“Breathe through it,” Marcus commanded, his voice strained, his own body trembling with the effort of his restraint. He pushed in another inch, the stretch a blinding, white-hot pain that blurred into pleasure. “Take it. You can take it.”
And Eli did. He took every brutal, glorious inch as Marcus sheathed himself fully inside him with a final, gut-wrenching thrust. A strangled scream was torn from Eli’s throat. It was too much. It was everything.
Marcus stilled, buried deep, his forehead resting between Eli’s shoulder blades. “Christ, Eli… so tight.”
Then he began to move.
It was a punishing, rhythmic pace that shook the door in its frame. Each thrust was a collision, a reaffirmation of the power Marcus had held over him all afternoon. The pain from the workout was nothing compared to this exquisite violation, this complete and total possession. Eli met every drive, pushing back, his own cock leaking and untouched, the friction of the hard door against his tip a maddening tease.
“Is this what you wanted?” Marcus grunted, his hands digging into Eli’s hips, sure to leave bruises. “You wanted me to make you hard? You’re fucking hard now, aren’t you? You’re mine.”
“Yes!” Eli sobbed, the confession ripped from him. “Yours!”
That was all it took. Marcus’s rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming erratic, brutal. He slammed into Eli one last, deep time, his body locking up as a raw, guttural roar was torn from his chest. Eli felt the hot, wet pulse deep inside him, and it was the final trigger. His own orgasm ripped through him without a hand ever touching his cock, painting the office door in stark, white stripes, his body convulsing around Marcus’s.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged, gasping breaths, echoing in the small, dark room. Marcus slumped against him, his weight a comforting, solid pressure.
Slowly, carefully, Marcus pulled out. Eli winced, the aftermath a tender, throbbing ache. Marcus turned him around, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He cupped Eli’s face, his thumb stroking his cheekbone with a tenderness that felt more devastating than the sex.
“The plan…” Marcus said, his voice hoarse. “It’s six days a week. No excuses.”
Eli just looked at him, at the intense green eyes that held a universe of conflict he couldn’t yet decipher. He nodded, his own voice gone.
The brutal plan was just beginning.