The hotel gym was a sleek, glass-walled box jutting out from the sixteenth floor, offering a stunning panorama of the city’s glittering skyline at dusk. Ethan adjusted the weight on the leg press, his muscles already warm from a light jog. He preferred the gym at this hour—quiet, almost private, with only the low hum of the elliptical and the distant thrum of traffic. But tonight, the illusion of solitude was shattered the moment the door hissed open.
She walked in like a slow-motion reel from a movie he’d watched a thousand times in his head. Claire. She wore a sports bra the color of deep burgundy, its fabric clinging to the generous swell of her breasts, and a pair of tight black leggings that cut high on her hips, leaving a narrow strip of toned belly exposed. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her flushed cheeks. She clutched a water bottle and a towel, her gaze scanning the machines before landing on him.
A flicker of recognition, then a small, hesitant smile. “Ethan? I thought that was you at the front desk.”
He stood up, wiping his hands on his shorts, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Claire. Wow. I didn’t know you were in town.”
She laughed, a breathy sound that sent a jolt straight through him. “Conference. Financial analytics. Thrilling stuff. I needed to burn off some PowerPoint-induced brain rot.” She dropped her towel on the bench beside the rack of dumbbells. “You still look like you live in here.”
“Guilty,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. Six years since he’d last seen her at a mutual friend’s wedding. She’d been dating some asshole in finance then. Now there was no ring on her finger, no tan line. Just smooth, sun-kissed skin and the tantalizing curve of her waist.
“Mind if I join you? I hate working out in an empty room,” she said, already reaching for a ten-pound dumbbell.
“Please. I could use the company.”
They started with bicep curls, standing side by side in front of the mirror that lined the wall. Ethan caught himself watching her form—the way her shoulders flexed, the subtle tremor in her forearms as she lifted. She caught him looking and held his gaze in the glass, a playful challenge in her eyes.
“See something you like?” she asked, her voice low enough that it felt like a secret.
Heat crept up his neck. “Just checking your technique. You’re going to pull something if you lock your elbows.”
She set the weights down and turned to face him fully, close enough that he could smell the faint, clean scent of her shampoo. “Aren’t you the gentleman? Always looking out for me.”
The air between them thickened. He remembered the wedding, the way she’d danced with him, her body pressed close, her laugh a little too loud. He’d wanted her then, desperately, but she’d been taken. Now, the air was charged with unspoken history.
“Let’s do something more interesting,” she said, her lips curving. “Spot me on the bench press? I want to go heavy.”
The bench press was tucked in the corner, away from the windows. Ethan followed her, watching the sway of her hips, the flex of her glutes with each step. She lay back on the padded bench, her legs wide to brace herself, the leggings pulling taut across her thighs. She grabbed the barbell, loaded with forty pounds on each side, and inhaled deeply.
“Ready,” she said.
He stood behind her head, his hands hovering near the bar, close enough that his fingertips brushed against hers as she lowered it. Her chest rose and fell with controlled breath, the burgundy fabric of her bra stained with a hint of sweat between her breasts. On the third rep, her arms trembled, and she let out a small, choked sound.
“I got you,” he said, his hands sliding under the bar, his voice gravelly.
She lifted again, but instead of finishing the rep, she let the bar settle onto the rack with a clang. She didn’t sit up. Instead, she looked up at him, her eyes dark and glossy.
“Ethan,” she whispered, her hand reaching up to touch his forearm. Her fingers were hot, damp. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about this. About us.”
The tension snapped. He leaned down, his lips crashing into hers. It was hungry, desperate—a taste of champagne and copper and sweat. Her tongue swept into his mouth, and he groaned against her, his hand moving from the bar to the side of her neck, feeling her pulse thrum like a trapped bird.
She broke the kiss, gasping. “Not here. The door isn’t locked.”
He pulled her upright, his hands sliding down her back, feeling the slick texture of her skin through the bra. “My room. 1612.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, a wild look in her eyes. “Too far. The locker room. There’s a shower.”
His brain short-circuited. The locker room was just through the door adjacent to the gym, with two private stalls for hotel guests. Clean, tiled, soundproofed. He grabbed her hand, and she laughed, a breathless, reckless sound, as they slipped through the door.
The men’s locker room was empty, the air cool and smelling of chlorine and bleach. The shower stalls were narrow, each with a frosted glass door. He pulled her into the last one, closing the door behind them, the space so tight that their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh.
She pushed him against the tiled wall, her mouth finding his again, her hands fumbling with the waistband of his shorts. He let her, his own hands sliding up the hem of her sports bra, feeling the slick, hot skin of her belly, the lace of her nothing of a bra.
“I’ve wanted this for years,” she murmured against his neck, her teeth grazing his pulse point. “At the wedding, I wanted you to take me in the parking lot.”
A low growl escaped him. He caught the hem of her bra and peeled it upward, over her head, tossing it to the wet floor. Her breasts spilled free—full, heavy, with dark nipples already peaked and tight. He lowered his head, taking one into his mouth, rolling the hard nub with his tongue. She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her moan echoing off the tiles.
His hands found the waistband of her leggings, dragging them down her hips. They clung to the curve of her ass, and she wriggled, laughing softly, until they pooled at her ankles. She kicked them aside, now wearing only the thin scrap of black lace between her thighs. He could see the dampness already blooming there, a dark patch that made his mouth water.
“Your turn,” she said, her fingers working the button of his shorts. They fell, and then his briefs, and she looked down at him, her lips parting. “Jesus, Ethan.”
He stepped out of the tangle of fabric, his cock jutting out, heavy and hard. She wrapped her hand around it, a slow, deliberate stroke, and he hissed through his teeth.
“Not yet,” he said, catching her wrist. “I want to taste you first.”
He dropped to his knees on the slick tile, ignoring the cold biting into his kneecaps. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her lace underwear and pulled them down, slowly, revealing the neat strip of dark hair, the pink, swollen folds already glistening. She spread her legs wider, bracing her hands against the tiled wall, and looked down at him with a hunger that made him burn.
He leaned in, his tongue flat and slow, tracing the seam of her lips. She let out a shuddering breath, her hips tilting forward. He licked again, harder, circling her clit, feeling it pulse against his tongue. A moan broke from her, raw and loud, and he sucked the tiny nub into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathed, her fingers combing through his hair, gripping hard. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He worshiped her there, on his knees on the cold tile, the taste of her—sweet and salty and utterly addictive—flooding his senses. He pushed one finger inside her, then two, curling them upward, feeling her walls flutter around him. Her moans became ragged, her hips grinding against his face, and he knew she was close.
“Come for me, Claire,” he said against her, his voice muffled, his fingers pumping harder.
She shattered with a cry, her body convulsing against his mouth, her grip on his hair almost painful. He drank her pleasure, licking her through it until she whimpered and pulled him up by his hair.
She turned him around, shoving him against the wall, her hands rough on his chest. She knelt without a word, taking him in her mouth. The heat of her tongue, the suction of her lips, sent a shockwave through him. She took him deep, her throat working around the head of his cock, and he gripped the metal rack that held the shower gel, his knuckles white.
“Claire, I’m going to—”
She pulled away, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his tip, and smiled up at him. “Not yet. I want you inside me.”
She stood, turning her back to him, and bent over, her hands on the tiled bench that ran along the wall. Her ass was perfect—round, firm, spread wide. The angle gave him a view of her from behind, her sex pink and swollen, still slick from his mouth.
He stepped up behind her, his cock pressing against the top of her folds, sliding through the wetness. She pushed back against him, a desperate little sound escaping her.
“Please,” she whispered.
He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and thrust into her in one smooth, deep stroke. She gasped, her head falling back, a long, broken moan filling the small space. He stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, feeling her clench around him, her heat nearly unbearable.
Then he began to move.
The rhythm was quick, primal, the slap of skin against skin echoing off the tiles. Her breasts swung beneath her, her bra forgotten on the floor, and he reached around to cup one, pinching her nipple between his fingers. She cried out, her hips bucking against his, meeting every thrust.
“Yes,” she gasped, her words ragged. “Yes, just like that. Harder.”
He gripped her hips tighter and drove into her, his pace brutal and relentless, the pleasure building in his gut like a coiled spring. Her moans became incoherent, her walls fluttering around him, and he knew she was close again.
He reached between her legs, his fingers finding her clit, swollen and hot. He rubbed tight circles, and she screamed, her body spasming as she came again, her release triggering his own. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and poured himself into her, his hips jerking as the last waves of pleasure rolled through him.
They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, their bodies slick with sweat and the steam beginning to billow from the shower head he’d accidentally knocked on. She laughed, a weak, breathless sound, and turned in his arms, her face flushed, her lips swollen.
“Well,” she said, her voice hoarse. “That was
