“Perfect.” Her smile could start a house fire. “If we’ve got circle-jerk therapy on Thursdays, we should space it out. I need time between sessions to reflect on healthy boundaries or whatever the fuck.”
“Reflect.” I should walk. I should.
But women in thigh highs don’t believe in obstacles. And clearly, neither do I.
“Yes. I’m growing,” she says, voice all sugary bright like she’s not actively trying to ruin my life.
“You’re fucking insane.”
“Okay, Lord Bench Press. That’s rude, especially coming from a man who’s also legally required to attend therapy,” she says with a touch more bite to her sugar.
“Yeah? I’m not the one treating it like Tinder.”
She steps up to the bar again, pretending she knows what she’s doing, but I clock the flaws instantly.
Grip’s too narrow. Stance is wrong. Shoulders tense like she’s waiting for me.
I should walk. I should let her pop a shoulder and get banned for liability.
But my body moves before my brain can veto.
“Your form’s shit,” I say, stepping in behind her. “You’ll fuck up your wrists.”
She looks over her shoulder, lashes batting like we’re in some kind of gym romcom porn parody. “Maybe I like it rough.”
I ignore the visual that gives me, barely.
My hands close over hers on the bar. “Wider grip.”
She obeys, dragging it out to feel every inch of my skin against hers, shivers and smiles. “Are you gonna fix my form all over, or just my hands?”
God fucking help me. I step closer. My voice is a growl in her ear. “Bend your knees.”
“Like this?” she whispers, sticking her ass out in a fucking challenge.
I swear under my breath. Adjust her hips. Her back arches. My restraint snaps halfway down my spine, gripping her hips.
“You always this hands-on, coach?” she teases.
I’m about to answer, probably with something regrettable, definitely something hard when Kevin’s voice cuts through the tension like a fucking foam roller to the balls.
“Yo, Jett!” he says. “You helping Delilah?”
I freeze. Her ass is still pushed back against my thighs.
Kevin approaches, all chipper fucking incompetence. “Need me to take over?”
No, Kevin. I do not need your untrained fingers anywhere near this disaster goblin in lipstick.
“She’s good,” I say. My jaw clicks with the effort it takes to stay civil. “We’re done.”
Delilah smiles like we just got engaged.
Kevin, oblivious as ever, gives her a welcome packet.
I imagine jamming it down his throat.
“See you next week, Jett,” she says, voice all sugar and sin. “I’ll schedule our time with Kev.”
