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Sweat trailed down your forehead, the small droplets falling from your nose with every thrust of the barbell. You grunt as you shove your hips up, feeling the strain up the back of your legs, and with a final, triumphant noise, you drop the weight back to the floor. Exhausted, you loll your head back onto the bench behind you. With one shaking hand, you wipe your face from your forehead to your neck, grimacing when you see the darkened spots on your sports bra.
Fuck, you pant, lifting your arms, How was it even possible for an armpit to sweat this much?
Lazily, you roll your eyes, shimmying out from under the bar. You go through the motions, re-racking each plate while taking leisurely sips from your bottle. However, just when you begin wiping down your bench, a hand slaps you on the back nearly hard enough to send you face-planting into the leather.
“Soap—” you grunt, pawing at your back like an idiot when you turn to face the man, “What was that—”
“Nothin’, Lass,” he chuckles, sidestepping your attempted swat to reach for the dumbbells, “Just wanted to say that was some good shit there,” he points towards where you were sitting just minutes earlier, “New PR, was it?”
“Not really,” you pant, “But it’s better than last week.”
Before Soap can even answer, you spin dazedly in the mirror, groaning when you see the wet palm print he left against the back of your bra. In the reflection, you can see Johnny’s face contort into a snort when he sees it, too. You send him a deadpan look just for that.
Ugh, you shudder, grimacing at the feeling of Soap’s sweat against your back, Even if I sweat like a pig, at least I don’t sweat like these boys…
Just to make yourself feel better about your soaked bra and leggings, you spare a glance at Kyle and Johnny, both of whom are flexing in the mirror between camera flashes, veiny arms shaking with the strain it takes to get the perfect Instagram story. However, judging by the way they hunch over the phone like a pair of pouting little boys between each photo, it’s not going too well.
“God,” you say, loud enough for Soap to hear, “If you’re gonna sweat that much, can you at least contain it to your side of the gym? I’m just an innocent bystander…”
“Dinnae mean to catch you in the crossfire, lass,” Soap turns then, hands on his hips. His tank top—ripped from beneath his arms to his waistline—is plastered to his chest and practically see through. His mohawk is limp against his scalp, idly dripping sweat into his eyelashes. And even Kyle, who had the sense to take his shirt off before the temperature reached sweltering levels, was still flushing with heat from the doglegs around his neck to the old sneakers on his feet.
Compared to them, you look like you’d taken a short walk in the rain. The two of them might as well pass themselves off as wet dogs.
“Just tryna tell you m’proud of you,” he stares down at you from beneath a curtain of sweaty eyelashes, “What? That illegal or something?”
You scoff with a smirk, shoving him away before his muscular arms can envelop you in a sweat-slick hug.
“It is from you, MacTavish,” you giggle, swiping your water bottle off of the bench, “You just wanna cop a handful.”
“What?” Soap calls after you as you walk back towards the benches, “Just sayin’, Lassie…keep liftin’ like that ’n you’ll have the best arse on the squad…”
With every step you take, you swear that you can feel Soap’s eyes glued onto your swaying hips and ass, looking his eyeful and then some. You can’t help but roll your eyes at his antics.
Fuckin’ dog, you laugh in your head.
“Yeah, and you’d just love that, wouldn’t you, Soap?” You fire back.
“Whatever,” the scot yells back, shaking his head as he pulls a dumbbell off the rack, “You basterds just don’t appreciate my expertise…”
“Your expertise?” You laugh, turning on your heel just to send Johnny a suggestive waggle of your eyebrows.
“Careful, Lassie,” Soap quirks his head while he curls the dumbbells, winking at you in the reflection as another drop of sweat crests the edge of his hairline, “Or ye just might get what yer askin’ for.”
“Soap,” you fake a gag, “How many times do I have to say ‘I love you like a brother’ before you stop hitting on me?”
“Brother,” he grunts with another curl, “Or step-brother?”
At that, your jaw drops, and you don’t miss the way Kyle’s eyes go wide the next time he hits the flash. When he turns to Soap, he’s got a hand clapped over his mouth, stifling howling laughter. If you weren’t so shocked, you might have been laughing just as hard.
“Neither,” you grimace, shaking your head, “God, Soap…you’re disgusting.”
“Tell that to the girl I had last night,” he chuckles, laughter transforming into a low groan with another rep. Instantly, a small chorus of joking gags resounds around your small group, the loudest of all being Gaz, who ambles over to Soap with his hands on his hips. Brows scrunched in displeasure, Soap merely sends him a scowl.
“Trust me,” Kyle shakes his head, “I fuckin’ heard. Wouldn’t be surprised if the entire barracks could hear it last night,” he snags his shirt off of the bench, walking behind Soap to whip the fabric across his back like a horse crop. Soap shocks forward at the feeling of it, nearly dropping his weight in the process. While you hide your giggles behind your hand, Soap only frowns into the streaky mirror.
“Wasn’t that loud…” he pouts. His voice is much lower than before.
“‘Wasn’t that loud?’” Gaz deadpans, “It was bouncin’ off the fucking walls, mate—and you were moanin’ louder than she was!!”
Instantly, laughter overcomes every gym goer within earshot, and instantly, Johnny has to drop his dumbbells just to process what Kyle had just said to him. You would have noticed the cold shadow enveloping you from behind if you weren’t so busy wheezing at the look on Johnny’s face.
“Ay—you lot quiet down,” Ghost barks from his position behind you, “Can barely hear my own fuckin’ thoughts.”
“Yeah,” Gaz smirks, “That’s about how loud it was last night.”
“Now yer just takin’ the piss, Gaz,” Soap gripes loudly.
“Soap,” Ghost barks, instantly shutting down the conversation, “Stop exposing your porn history in the gym, Soap. Swear to god,” he shakes his head, “Everything I fuckin’ know about you’s been against my will.”
“Hate me that much, sir?” Soap grunts.
“Depends,” Ghost cocks his head, steely eyes pointed resolutely at Soap, “How badly do you wanna get written up, sergeant?”
Idly, you purse your lips, watching the drama unfold with nothing more than a bat of your sweat-slick eyelashes. For a moment, the silence continues, a simmering tension filling the air between the two officers. Weirdly, you can’t help but think that it’s something of a bastardized stand-off—like two bulls locking horns in a stalemate. However, as much as you love Soap, you had to admit he was barking up the wrong tree. Beneath the towering lieutenant, Soap looked more like a fledgling puppy than the grizzly wolf he hoped he was, and unfortunately for him, the Alpha male didn’t have a problem with biting though a few throats just to get a couple minutes of peace and quiet.
At the mental image, you snort.
Men, you muse, craning your neck to look at where Ghost stands behind you, Always manage to turn everything into a pissing contest.
“No, sir, LT,” Soap submits, voice lowering.
“Good,” Ghost sighs behind you, ambling back towards the machine he’d been working on, “Too hot for this shite anyway…”
With that, the four of you ease back into a comfortable silence, nothing more than the ambient music and the clacking of steel to fill the air. Soap continues with his set, Kyle fiddles with his earbuds, and Ghost hunkers back down on his bench. Your eyebrows raise when you hear how the leather squeaks under his weight.
God, you muse, inconspicuously watching him crack his neck, Just how big was that man?
You’d been in the 141 for a few years now, but even so, the initial officers’ meeting was anything but a forgotten memory. That day, you’d been sitting in the conference room waiting for your contract offer, sweating under the collar of your pressed uniform, leg bouncing so violently that you were sure your kneecap would be swollen by the end of it.
You’d been expecting some white-haired officer to meet you in the conference room. That, or some young secretary whose whole job was to send emails and peruse their Amazon shopping cart when they were on the clock. However, when two thirty-something, dressed down operators walked into the room—t-shirts clinging to their swollen biceps like they’d just walked off the cover of a magazine—it was safe to say you were entirely speechless.
You’d shaken their hands with clammy palms, practically trembling beneath their steely gazes and baritone voices. Price—whose mustache you were silently marveling at the entire meeting—eased your nerves without breaking a sweat. Naturally homely and charming, it wasn’t long before your jitters disappeared around him altogether.
However, the man at his side, darkened eyes hidden within the shadows of a skull mask, had had your nerves singing like a church choir for months on end.
-
For the first few days, you’d almost thought it was coincidence, the way he’d show up around every corner and turn, barricading your path with his barrel chest and veiny arms. The first time you’d ran into him in the hallway, you’d practically whimpered when you nearly ran into the broad expanse of his shoulders, barely able to muster a stuttered apology before you were running off, hiding behind your manila files just so you wouldn’t have to stare into those alarmingly pretty eyes any longer.
How was it fair, you’d lamented the first time you ran into him, That a guy who was as scary as that had eyes the color of a sparkling ocean?
It just didn’t make any sense. And for weeks, you’d walked the halls in constant fear of both his attention and his praise, shrinking into your uniform any time he so much as looked in your direction. Perhaps it was a fawn response (it had to be), but something inside of you heart yearned for his wordless stares and rejected them all the same, like a seed that your body just refused to take.
It was only after he’d cornered you one day that your ill-fated game of hide and seek had come screeching to a halt.
You’d been exiting the conference room, trying to hustle back to the barracks before Ghost could catch the timid expression on your face, only for the door to slam shut in front of you before you could even reach the handle. Ghost had stepped in front of you, cocking his head in a gesture that was so backbreaking you actually released a small squeak at the sight of him in front of you.
“Um—LT?” You’d asked him, voice barely audible.
“Are you scared of me?”
Dumbly, you’d blinked blankly, staring at his collarbones like the answer to all of your problems could be found therein (because you still couldn’t look him in the eye without feeling like your entire skeleton was shuddering in terror at the sensation). And as you stood there, biting your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood, you’d only had the brain power to dazedly admit to yourself that he had beautiful collarbones.
They peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt, the fabric wrinkled in the middle of the chest from the wrought plains of muscle across his torso. In the center, the hem of the collar dipped from the strain of his muscle mass on the shirt, and just underneath the glinting metal of his dog tags, you could see the defined lines of his collarbones—skin smooth and scarred, shining with a few droplets of dew.
Idly, you’d imagined that’s where he sprayed his cologne when he got ready in the morning, and yet, standing so close to him like this, the notes of his scent were delightfully complex. From the acrid, lingering traces of tobacco, to the clean smell of his shampoo, only the barest hint of fragrance remained, buried beneath the heady musk and sweat of a man on the job.
It was something icy, virile, and so, so dreadfully intoxicating.
Seconds had passed. He’d cleared his throat. But with your head spinning, lost in the daze of his misplaced male pride, there was only one thought that crossed your mind: He’s wearing Polo Black. Definitely.
Needless to say, when you’d finally managed to find your words, he had been woefully unimpressed.
“What…?” You’d mustered, unblinking.
“Are you scared of me or something? It seems like every time I need to talk to you you go scurrying off somewhere. So tell me, sergeant, you got a problem or something?” He’d pressed, unconsciously crossing his arms.
And after that, his words might as well have gone in one ear and straight out the other, because your attention was focused anywhere but on his moving mouth. No, your eyes were centered straight on where the edge of his wrist bones cut into the plush muscle of his pecs. The indents they made were looked soft to the touch, like a cushion just waiting to be squeezed. And while his voice slowly transformed into TV static inside of your mind, yet another unwitting thought went speeding through your brain.
I wouldn’t mind using him as a pillow, your mind croons, practically batting your lashes.
And eventually, when the pillowy surface of his chest had been adequately committed to your memory, your eyes had fallen to his arms.
God, his biceps.
You could have started purring just at the sight of them. Throughout your enlistment, you’d been surrounded by no shortage of well-built men. If anything, there was an overabundance of them. The boys practically grew on trees at this point, and once you’d grown out of basic, you’d quickly stopped fawning over veiny forearms and bulging muscles.
Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate, per se. On one hand, the majority of the men you worked with looked like they could pick up a car barehanded, and once everyone achieved that feat, it therefore ceased to be one altogether. And yet…there was something about how soft hard earned muscle became when it was bare and flushed, when it was sweaty and panting, whispering low words in your ears between each and every thrust.
Absently, you’d felt heat climb into your cheeks, heart beat racing.
Maybe it was the fact that you’d just taken this position—a position on a squad that had never had a female recruit until you fit the bill, that is—that you feel this way. Between the missions, the training, the briefs, paperwork and coffee runs, there wasn’t much to do aside from collapse into your bunk and wait for morning to come. The walls were thin and privacy was scarce. Hell, with the lack of estrogen on base, the female locker rooms and showers were decidedly cramped, and the only “personal time” you’d been able to snag had been in a bathroom stall with the gusset of your training suit pulled to the side.
Yeah.
Maybe that was it.
Maybe that’s why you could practically imagine it, the slick swipe of his skin over yours, fingers tracing each and every vein of those mysterious tattoos, while he put those sweat-slick muscles to work in between your spread thighs..
His voice would be raspy and deep, low and barely noticeable. But maybe if you hooked your legs around his waist, maybe if you managed to look him in the eye for once, he’d all but crumble inside of your embrace. Warm skin, beating heart, darkened eyes—everything. As much as they terrified you, you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining them in a different light—a light in which they were wholly and utterly yours. That skin, bare and shining, from his thick neck to those criminally slim hips, moving against your own. That pulse racing against your chest, hitching with every move of his pelvis. And those eyes, locked onto your bouncing tits and burning flesh, lost in just as much of a trance as you found yourself in right now.
Does he drink protein powder?
You couldn’t help but wonder. After all, how did someone get that big unless they were packing on protein like it was going out of fashion? He must eat like a horse. A very big, very muscle-y, very well endowed—
“Sergeant? Are you listening?” His voice had shocked you out of your reverie, and your head had begun to spin when your feet finally hit the ground.
“Um—yes?” You’d asked him, inconspicuously shifting on your feet to ease the wet ache between your thighs.
“So what is it then?” He’d huffed, voice stiff—almost as if he were pouting, “Is there a problem or no?”
“There’s…” you take a deep breath, swallowing as you tried valiantly to stop your eyes from slipping back onto his covetable muscles, “There’s no—no problem.”
“So,” he’d shook his head, almost as if he was perplexed by your answer, “There’s no problem? None at all?”
He’d leaned down then, looking at you with all the blue eyes and wispy blonde lashed your midnight fantasies ever could have conjured. Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for the tiny squeak you’d released when it’d happened.
“Nope,” you’d answered dumbly, looking over his shoulder just so you wouldn’t stare down his shirt instead.
“Good,” he’d stepped back, pulling open the door, “Then I’ll see you for tea tomorrow morning?”
“Tea?” You’d blanked.
“Yeah…” he’d scrunched his brows so hard you could see it even beneath the mask, “It’s just…” he purses his lips, and his pupils look you over from head to toe, lingering just a little too long on where the buttons of your shirt stretch around your bra, “Figured you and I should get to know each other. One on one. Just to communicate effectively in the workplace, yeah?”
“Oh—” you’d faked understanding, nodding your head like it’d do something, “Oh, yeah, definitely. See you tomorrow morning then.”
“See ‘ya.”
And when the door had slowly closed behind him, you would be lying if your stare didn’t drop straight to his backside as he walked away. Deadpan, you’d leant up against the wall, rubbing your thighs together to gauge how wet your panties were.
Fuck.
Of course he had to have a nice ass, too.
-
And like that, you find yourself staring into space once more, unconsciously lifting your water bottle to your lips like you hadn’t drank the last few drops ten minutes ago. When a low noise emits to your left, however, you finally find the sense of mind to ground yourself, looking down at yourself in a daze.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, eyeing the glistening spots of sweat underneath your arms. Idly, you walk over towards the weight rack, snagging your towel off it to wipe over your face.
God, the boys might be going stir crazy without any recent assignments, but they were definitely right about one thing: it was dreadfully hot in here. The air conditioner on base always got a bit finicky around the summer months, but it’d never been this bad before. Maybe all those years of strain had finally taken their toll. You sigh as you rub the towel against your hands, lifting it to your face next to wash the sweat out of your eyelashes.
However, the second your vision is covered, another low noise bellows from the side.
“Fuck, it’s too goddamn hot in here.”
You drop the towel.
You nearly go blind with what you see next.
Ghost, chest rising and falling with every harsh pant he makes, pants dangerously low around his hips and shirt curled around two of his fingers, just barely exposing a pair of defined hipbones that disappear into the waistband of his joggers. Without even noticing, saliva begins to collect on your tongue, especially when you spot the blonde trail of hair that sinks into the hem of his trousers.
Fuck, you curse without thinking, eyes unwittingly drawn to the spectacle when he yanks his T-shirt over his head.
And within an instant, it’s revealed to you.
The promised land, you’re sure.
Because his chest is just as soft and plush as you thought it would be, all but dripping with sweat, and when a single droplet makes it down the valley of his pecs, leaving slick lines all the way down the velvety expanse of his abs, you would be lying if you said your mouth wasn’t going dry.
Without even blinking, you clumsily raise your water bottle to your lips, trying desperately to summon even a single ounce of water to cure the blazing heat that consumes your body at the sight of him.
With another crack of his neck, Simon sits back down on the bench, leaning comfortably into the backrest. And when he sits down—a tiny grunt emitting from his covered mouth—any hope of hiding your shock is erased within a single second. Because, just like any other man, he spreads his legs around the leather, giving you an uninterrupted view of the heavy bulge between his thighs.
Unconsciously, you drop your water bottle, unable to tear you eyes away—especially when he reaches for his waistband to readjust it.
His stomach flexes as he straightens up, the veins in his biceps and hands shifting as he carefully shuffles the band down a bit further around his hips, exposing the black, sweat-drenched boxer band beneath his pants. He sighs, and the fabric snaps back to his body. But when he reaches between his legs to pick up the first dumbbell, the side of his palm just barely brushes over the front of his pants, and you watch the movement with absolute, undue intensity.
You bite through the skin on your lips, crossing your arms to watch as he heaves two gigantic dumbbells into his arms. He lifts them like they’re nothing more than paperweights, something he could throw around without even breaking a sweat.
But that’s not the whole truth of it. It’s not. Because he is breaking a sweat. And, god, if he didn’t look good coated in a glistening layer of it, smelling like every bit of the hardworking man that he was.
Dazed, you lean up against the rack, having to steady yourself on your feet when you miss it on the first try. You watch as he shifts into an incline chest press.
With every push of the weight, the muscles of his chest jump and twitch, flexing with every practiced motion, like the rippling waves on the sea.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.
The dumbbells are so big they nearly overshadow the length of his forearms in their entirety, and yet, somehow, you find another way to get your fill.
His stomach.
His happy trail.
His hips, biceps, and pecs.
Fuck.
His chest is heaving with every thrust now, hips jumping against the seat—all too similar to how you imagine he looks when he’s laid up in the barracks, hand beneath his waistband, chasing a high that even the gym couldn’t gratify.
And, god, that opens a whole new can of worms, one that your mind doesn’t hesitate to run free with.
What did Ghost look like when he touched himself?
You bite your lip, vision blurring.
He’d look just like he does on the bench, the lines of his abs disappearing and reappearing with every gasping breath. Small groans—not unlike the raspy moans escaping his mouth on the next rep—muffled under his mask while he looked at what he was doing to himself, at how his body was reacting to the touches he was giving himself.
And in your heart—in the very depths of your soul—you know that it’s big. The bulge between his legs didn’t hide any secrets, and when his thighs jump with the strain, you swear you can see the way his flesh moves beneath the fabric.
For possibly the hundredth time in the past minute alone, your eyes drag down the blonde hair on his stomach. Down, down, down. All the way down to where it leads into his boxer band, just barely out of view.
It’s matted to his stomach with sweat, shiny and golden. And yet, your mind doesn’t fail to twist even that mundane detail into something else entirely.
What did it look like when he was stroking himself, body heaving with pent up energy and testosterone, precum leaking down onto his swollen balls, signaling his impending release?
What did it look like when he finally got there, abs clenched in an unforgiving knot when he finally spilled over his own two hands, the droplets sticking to his sweaty chest and thighs?
What did it look like flecked with his own semen, his gruff moans the crescendo of the scene?
God, you lament, feeling yourself begin to leak in your panties. You should look away. You should gather your things and head back into the locker room. You should go home and dig your dildo out of your pack, if only so that you could stop yourself from having such indecent thoughts about a close friend—one who just so happened to be your CO, as well.
However, when Simon drops the weight with a heavy clunk, sitting up against the bench, any thought of looking away goes flying out your mind.
Because then, his sore chest is exposed to you in all of its glistening glory. The muscles are pumped and flush with heat, reddened against the pale set of his skin tone from the exertion. Sparse hair—so blonde you would have seen through them—decorate his skin, thinning into a small trail that leads from his sternum all the way down to his pants.
But what steals the show is the way they flex when he sits up, the way they squish between his arms when he picks up his water bottle once more. Not for the first time, you find yourself wondering just how soft they really are. If you pressed your fingers into them, would there be indents left? Would his skin carry the memory of your touch?
It’s a heady thought. One that’s only made worse when he begins to drink from the water bottle, a small cascade of water mixing with the sweat on his chest.
Fuck, you think, looking down at your breasts. You looked good in this bra—Soap had no problem telling you that—and for all intents and purposes, you had no reason to be dissatisfied with your own tits before.
But looking at Ghost like that, body swollen from adrenaline and exhaustion, the jokes just make themselves.
God, you laugh in your mind He’d probably need a bigger bra than me.
Forget about asses, Ghost might have the best rack on the team. Somehow, you hope he realizes that. Lost in the color of his skin and sweat, you forget yourself, oblivious to everything aside from the slick collecting in your panties and the delicious redness on his pale skin.
That is, until his voice calls out for you gently—almost as if he didn’t want the others to hear.
“You good, sergeant?” He asks softly, cocking his head, “Looked like something caught your eye there for a minute…”
Instantly, your stomach drops and you fumble with your water bottle. You look down at the floor, trying to ignore the way your cunt clenches in between your legs.
“No, it’s—it’s nothing, LT,” you reply, shaking your head, “Just…at the rate you’re going, you’ll have the biggest boobs on the team soon.”
“Yeah?” He chuckles, but the smile he wears isn’t joking. No, it’s…insistent. Impatient. Teasing., “Worried I’ll take you out of first place?”
“Honestly?” This time, you purposefully look him over, heat rushing through your cheeks, “I think you’re running a close second. But don’t worry, LT,” you joke, smiling, “I’m not all that competitive. We can share the podium.”
“Hm,” he huffs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, “Bloody shame, that.”
At that, you furrow your brows, confused.
“Why?” You ask.
“Nothin’ just…” his eyes flick up to meet your own, so dangerously dark you could drown in their depths, “Thought you mind might compare. Y’know, just to make sure we’re both telling the truth, I mean…”
His gaze drops to your chest then, biting his cheek when he sees how droplets of sweat collect in the valley between your breasts.
“I dunno what you look like beneath that bra, sweetheart,” he comments, “Ain’t it a little unfair? That you know what I look like without a shirt, but I’ve never seen you without one?”
At his words, your jaw drops. Once again, just like that day in the conference room all those years ago, you find yourself speechless, all but helpless to watch as he stands and comes closer. With every heavy step, the sheer mass of his muscles makes itself known. And when he stops just in front of you, the musk of his perspiration—a badge of his hard work in and of itself—envelops you like a fiery hug.
In a haze, you look up at him, feeling your core pulse when he pointedly dips his chin, looking down at the slopes of your breasts.
“Sure you wanna give up that easily?” He whispers, and his voice paints shivers up your spine. His head lolls the other direction, and at his side, he lifts one burly hand.
However, before he can touch you, your entire body is consumed with nerves. Without even thinking, you slap your hands down on his bare chest—a sound that (thankfully) Kyle and Johnny can’t hear over their own conversation—stopping him before the heat inside of your body can devour you once and for all.
“That’s—I’m really not that competitive. I mean, I—” your ramble breaks into a flustered giggle, and you step away from him awkwardly, “This bra—it’s…I’m pretty sweaty. It’s hot in here, isn’t it? God, the air conditioner must have broken or something.”
Your laughter is obnoxiously tense. So tense you swear you can see the confusion in his eyes.
“Just—I’m just gonna head to the locker room, and….change my clothes,” you huff, already walking away, “Uh—good job on your PR, LT. If you keep lifting like that—well…”
You snap you jaw shut before you can repeat Soap’s horrible line from earlier. At that, Simon’s hand drops lazily back to his side, head cocked—this time, in utter confusion.
“That wasn’t a PR,” he calls after you, but you’re already walking away, slamming the locker room door shut behind you before his horrible, stupid, delicious voice can follow you any longer.
For once, you thank the universe that there aren’t more women on base. Because the instant you burst through the doors, you have the locker room all to yourself. Panting, you collapse onto a bench, gripping the wooden seat like it might stop you from doing something you might regret.
Yet, your brain remains outside, back in the gym, with your bare hands against his naked chest, his body heat warming your palms like a hearth. And suddenly, it’s impossible to contain yourself any longer. Before you can stop yourself—before you can even think about what’s right and decent—you spread your legs on the bench, swiping a hand up against your clothed cunt.
And just like you suspected, your slick has already leaked through your panties and leggings, a barely noticeable dark spot over the front of your pants. Just at that singular touch, your body sings and your pussy aches for more. For something purposeful. For something harder. Thicker. Longer.
Your brain is overwhelmed with your own needs.
Water.
Touch.
Heat.
Love.
Him.
“God…” you curse, plunging your hands into your pants when it all becomes to much. Instantly upon spreading your folds, you find an unabashed swipe of slick. It paints over your knuckles from front to back, and your fingers barely have the grip to open yourself wide enough to circle your fingers around your clit.
“Fuck,” you moan quietly, but in the stark silence, each and every breath sounds like a bomb dropping.
Blood rushes straight to your core, and just when you finally manage to get a good rhythm, something hollow and aching cries out within you—something baser, something that was so innate it was only a part of your biology, not your person.
And it cries out for something more. For something to fill you—for him to fill you—if only so that the horrible emptiness in your cunt would fade back into the recesses of your body.
And yet, it doesn’t. It nags on your mind. Tugs on your heart. It screams and begs until rubbing at your clit feels pointless—until you relent with a bitten mewl, shoving two fingers inside of your dripping hole before you can think better of it.
At the sudden intrusion—however small and unsatisfying it may be—your body calms just the slightest bit. It’s just enough for you to shakily rest your heels on the edge of the bench, chin dropping to look down at where you brazenly touch yourself in the middle of the locker room. Slowly, you push in and out of yourself, watching your hand move beneath the soaked black fabric.
But the longer you watch, the longer you sit there and try to fulfill a fantasy that’s impossible for one person to make come true, the more desperate you get. And before you know it, tears spring to your eyes, frustration welling up inside of you.
Your fingers aren’t gonna cut it.
Whimpering, you bite your lip, mind in a haze. The toy you kept in your room might do it. It wouldn’t be the same. No, it couldn’t even compare to a living, breathing person, but it was the best you were going to get. Hurriedly, you tug your hands out of your pants, swiping your fingers over your leggings in a haphazard attempt at cleaning them. You grab your things, making a beeline for the door.
—only to slam straight into a firm chest the minute you step outside the locker room.
Once again, you’re enveloped in that scent.
Tobacco.
Body wash.
Sweat.
Musk.
Man.
And before you can think better of it, you shakily raise your eyes, unable to hide the way your body thrums with discomfort and need when he overshadows you like this. Again, you’re swallowed up in everything that he is. His proximity, attention, and stare. And mercilessly, he steps closer, sweat slowly drying against his skin.
The gym is empty and quiet now.
It’s just the two of you now, and the silence could not weigh heavier.
With a single look, he knows.
He knows what you need.
In the back of his throat, he makes a deep noise, one that reverberates in the very chambers of your heart. And before you can even stop him, he reaches out and delicate takes your hands into his. Experimentally, he brushes his thumbs over your knuckles, looking down at them intently.
“Is this sweat?” He says lowly, “Or something else?”
Your heart rate spikes when you look down at where he holds you—at where the few remaining lines of your own slick paint his fingertips. Useless, you struggle for your words, but your jaw can only open and close stupidly, completely inarticulate.
Watching the pitiful sight, a smirk overcomes his lips.
He drops your hands.
He plants his palm against the flat of your chest, right above your hardened nipples.
And when he slowly backs you up into the locker room once again, you can’t find it in yourself to push him away—especially not when he hooks his finger under the hem of your bra, tugging it down over your cleavage, and watching the obscene way that the fabric indents the fat of your tits.
“Just to make sure,” he tells you.