Page 50 of Gym With Benefits

“What?”

I slapped a palm to my forehead and took a much-needed breath to reoxygenate my brain. “The date’s boring. Not you. Jesus. I have a friend. And he has a job.”

“Jess, is everything okay?”

“It’s his work mixer next Friday,” I finally said the goddamn thing. “And I wanted to know if you’d be my date.”

18

Jess

The bass from the sound system thudded through the gym, a Saturday morning crush of Lycra and clanking iron filling the main floor. Hunter’s biceps stretched the sleeves of his work t-shirt as he pushed a plastic cup of green sludge toward me.

“Drink it,” he said, his lips curling into an unhurried smile that reached his eyes. “It’s got spirulina and enough ginger to restart a dead engine. Just the pre-workout for weights.”

I took a sip, the burn of raw ginger hitting the back of my throat. “It tastes like lawn clippings.”

“That's the premium health profile you're experiencing,” he said, his fingers brushing against mine as he reached for his own cup. The casual contact sent a distinct spike of heat low in my abdomen, a vivid reminder of how those same fingers felt against my skin in his office a few days ago.

He left his pinky finger hooked over mine, a public declaration disguised as a lack of spatial awareness. Where Brock approached every encounter like an infantry assault, Hunter possessed a terrifyingly open, smitten quality that made my usual defenses feel clumsy.

“David's firm takes these mixers very seriously,” I said, leaning my hip against the bar to shield our joined fingers from view.“There'll be litigation partners drinking gin and tonic, discussing compliance structures. You'll need a suit jacket at the very least.”

“I own a jacket, Jess,” he laughed, his eyes tracking the line of my throat as if we weren’t surrounded by people bustling about. “You should wear your gym clothes though. I'd love to peel those tights off you again. Maybe find another desk to christen.”

My heart did a traitorous little flip. “I’m sure the offices will all be locked.”

“Then we'll find a dark corner in the coat check,” he replied, his gaze snagging on my mouth as I took another sip of my liquid grass. “You're beautiful when you come. Has anyone ever told you that?”

A group of powerlifters marched past, their loud arguments about protein synthesis breaking our private bubble, but Hunter didn't look away from me. He just winked, a playful confidence that left me feeling thoroughly exposed and incredibly warm between my thighs.

“We should probably keep things, you know, under wraps.” I pulled back, immediately regretting losing the feel of his fingers grazing mine. “Just in case.”

“In case what? I don’t care if people see.” And he pushed out his chest to prove it. “I’m the luckiest guy in the tri-state area. Fuck whoever has an opinion on that.”

“Hunter…” I dipped my head to shield my face as a gaggle of cardio queens waltzed by.

He gave a naughty little laugh, and waved me off. “Get out of here, you minx. Before Brock blames me for cutting into your workout time.”

“Shit. I almost forgot.”

“And tell him I said to go easy,” he called after me as I hurried to the Muscle Mansion. “I want you functional for our date.”

The temperature on the weight floor climbed ten degrees the second I stepped onto the rubber matting. The ginger from Hunter’s lawn-clipping smoothie burned a steady line down my throat, but the real heat pooled much lower, fueled by the lingering memory of his touch. I walked straight toward the squat racks, my pulse ragged.

Brock stood by the barbell, his back toward me as he checked the collar clamps. When he turned around, the air left my lungs.

“What the fuck happened to your face?”

A dark violet bruise bloomed across his left cheekbone, pulling the skin tight beneath his eye and fading into a sickly greenish-yellow near his jaw.

“It’s nothing.”

My stomach did a complicated flip. There was disbelief but also… arousal? Fuck, he was even hotter with the bruise. The discoloration destroyed his usual symmetrical perfection, giving him the rugged, unpolished edge of a dockworker who enjoyed a Saturday night brawl.

“It was Dane, wasn’t it?”

Brock reached up, his thumb tracing the swollen edge of the violet skin without a single flinch. “He’s an asshole but he packs a decent right hook.”