Chapter 1: Sweat and Vengeance: The First Rep
The gym door slammed shut behind mr with a heavy, final thud. The sound echoed in the stark, tiled hallway, but it did nothing to shake the words loose from my skull. Lazy. Let yourself go. Not the woman I married. Mark’s voice, clipped and cold
over breakfast, was still there, coiled tight behind my sternum. The rage was a physical heat flushing my neck and cheeks as I shoved through the women’s locker room door. It was empty, thank god, the fluorescent lights buzzing a sickly drone against the quiet. “Asshole,” I muttered to the silent benches, my voice bouncing off the tiles. “Ungrateful, selfish prick.” I tore my shirt over my head, my reflection in the long mirror a blur of pale, soft flesh that Mark found so offensive. I thought the bad mood was gonna fill my head the entire day, a toxic sludge I’d drown in, but it stopped for a sec after my eyes landed on a fit young black man who turns out to be my personal trainer.
He was leaning against the doorjamb leading to the gym floor, having pushed the men’s room door open just enough. Kyle. His arms were crossed over a chest so densely muscled it strained his tight performance shirt. His gaze wasn’t on my face. It tracked slowly down from my shoulders, over the lace of my bra, the new curve of my stomach, the stretch marks he couldn’t see from there, and back up. It wasn’t the disapproving inventory Mark gave me. This was different. Hungry. Appraising. “Problem, Sarah?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that cut through the sterile air.
He didn’t move from his spot, his eyes holding mine in the mirror now. “You seem… agitated.” A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. “Anger burns calories faster, you know.”
He pushed off the doorframe and took a single, deliberate step into the locker room, the illegally male presence both a threat and a thrill. “Let’s put that fire to good use.”
He finally stepped fully into the locker room, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Kyle,” he said, extending a hand that engulfed mine, his grip warm and deliberately firm. “So, Sarah, what are we hoping to achieve here? What’s the fitness goal?” His eyes dropped to my lips.
“The goal is to lose a few,” I said, my voice tighter than I intended.
“Well, you’re starting from a damn good place for forty,” he said, his smile all white teeth and confidence. “You look great.”
A harsh laugh escaped me. “You should tell that to my husband,” I snapped, the bitterness raw. “He’s the one who sent me here to lose the ‘baby weight’. His words, not mine.”
Kyle’s smirk didn’t fade; it deepened, his eyes glinting with a new kind of interest. “His loss,” he murmured, taking another step closer. The clean, sharp scent of his cologne cut through the locker room damp. He reached out, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate line from my wrist up my inner arm. My breath hitched. “Seems to me he doesn’t know what to do with a real woman.”
All the anger, the hurt, the fucking loneliness of the last year coiled in my gut and then snapped. “And you do?” I challenged, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Yeah,” he said, simple and sure, his other hand coming up to cradle my jaw. “I fucking do.” He kissed me then, not asking, all command and heat and the faint taste of coffee. It was nothing like Mark’s perfunctory pecks. This was a conquest.
This was a conquest. His mouth was demanding, all tongue and teeth, and my hands flew up to push against his chest but found themselves clutching the hard swell of his pecs instead. A low groan vibrated from him into my mouth. He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and satisfied. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Use that anger.”
HE TOUCHES HER.
His hands, those big trainer’s hands, slid down from my jaw, over my neck, my shoulders. They didn’t hesitate. They moved over the lace of my bra, his thumbs rubbing hard over my nipples until they ached into tight points. I gasped, my head falling back. “See?” he breathed against my throat, his teeth scraping my pulse point. “Your body knows what it wants. It’s screaming for it.” One hand left my breast and slid down, over the soft give of my belly, and hooked into the waistband of my leggings. He pulled me flush against him, and I could feel the hard, thick line of his erection through his shorts. “Fuck,” I whispered, more a exhale than a word.
“Yeah,” he agreed, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric, finding me already wet. “All this for me?” He pushed a finger inside, and my knees buckled. “Your husband’s a fucking idiot.” He added a second finger, stretching me, a crude, delicious friction. His mouth came back to mine, swallowing my moan. “Gonna make you forget his name,” he promised, his voice a dirty whisper. He worked his fingers in and out, his palm grinding against my clit with each thrust. The pleasure was sharp, immediate, and clouded with spite. This was for Mark. Every ragged breath was a ‘fuck you’. Kyle watched my face, a cocky smile on his lips. “You gonna come on my hand, Sarah? Do it. Then I’m gonna bend you over that bench and fuck you properly.” His words were a lit fuse. My climax tore through me, vicious and bright, my cries muffled against his shoulder. As I shuddered, he slowly withdrew his fingers.