The stress of not being good enough.
The dull ache of disappointment in himself he’d never outwardly show.
Nothing a good fuck couldn’t fix.
Most of the time, one good pounding a month would suffice, but tonight was the second night in a row he neededsomething.
He needed release, and so he called upon one of the only three men he’d ever been intimate with. Their names were Cole, Hugh, and Triton, but he could only choose one. And they all lived in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Zach was clear with veins etched into the glass. Hugh was a flesh-like and smooth recreation of some forgotten porn star’s cock. As for Triton, he was in time-out for the mishap in the shower the previous night.
That night, he chose Hugh.
And that night, he wasn’t quite so lonely.
Chapter Two
Sweat pooledat the ends of Cooper’s dirty blonde hair, dripping steadily. His body screamed for relief, quads and lungs burning, as a mechanical whir hummed from the Peloton beneath him. The closer he got to the five-mile mark, the faster—the harder—he pedaled.
As soon as he crossed the finish line, he stopped pedaling. The flywheel slowed and then a silence followed, where the only thing he could hear was his own futile attempts at catching his breath and the uncapping of a bottle of orange Gatorade that Ryan pumped into his mouth from above.
Cooper would’ve rather died than look his trainer in the eyes. A task which wasn’t too difficult of a chore when his eyes cinched at the corners to flush out the saltiness of the sweat washing down the side of his face.
His legs shook as he climbed off the side of the bike and grabbed a clean towel from Ryan. He whipped the towel into a roll and flossed it over the back of his neck, went to grab his phone, and brushed his arm against Ryan’s.
He came to a stop and made eye contact with the other man.
Fuck.
Ryan stood tall, appeared lean, and was clean-shaven with hair a little darker than Cooper’s, but cut much shorter. He pressed his back against the wall, his bottom lip rolling as if he were on the verge of saying something Cooper most definitely did not want to hear.
Cooper thought about running, but fuck, he was in his own gym in his own home. If anyone should’ve run, it should’ve been Ryan. Keeping him on the payroll after the lastmistakewas Cooper’s newest mistake in a long line of them.
Ryan’s eyes rolled to the side. “We don’t talk about what happened.”
“You’re being paid to train me, not to talk,” Cooper reminded him and snatched the bottle of Gatorade from Ryan’s hands.
“If I remember correctly, I was on the clock when you let me kiss you.”
That’s the most either had ever said about what Cooper considered a mistake.
“You’re talking too much.” Cooper shoved the bottle back into the trainer’s hands. “Say less.”
Ryan pointed to the blue foam mat on the floor. “A hundred crunches in two minutes and we’re done for the day.”
The polyester shirt Cooper wore clung to his slick chest as he assumed the position on the floor. Ryan dropped down to meet him where he lay, taking hold of a foot with each hand.
The first fifty crunches came easy enough, but every time Cooper brought the weight of his body upward, he met Ryan’s gaze. A gaze which intensified with every thrust.
“Look,” Cooper said, breath ragged. “I’m not?—”
Ryan snorted with amusement. “Whisper me a new tune. I’ve heard this before.”
Cooper came to a rest, hands dangling between his thighs. “I was going to say not interested.”
Ryan looked to the clock on the wall to the right. “You’re still on the clock and you’re losing time.”
“It’s my clock, so I make the rules.”
No longer were both of Ryan’s hands held at Cooper’s feet. One snaked up the side of Cooper’s leg, fingers brushing over a dark forest of hair, and settling just at the base of Cooper’s black shorts.
