Page 34 of Gym With Benefits

"Your stroke is too tight," he said. He moved closer, his legs tangling with mine beneath the surface. The friction of his hair-dusted thighs against my knees was a jolt. He moved behind me, his chest pressing against my back to guide my arms through the motion. "You’re fighting the water. You have to let it carry you."

His hands slid down my upper arms to my elbows, his touch light but insistent. The proximity was a sensory trap. I could feel the hard, lean plane of his stomach against my spine. My mind flashed to David in the club, the way he had moved between his friends with that effortless grace. He’d spoken about sharing, about the lack of boundaries, and here I was, still humming from Brock’s touch while Hunter’s hands mapped my alignment.

"Loosen up," Hunter whispered into the shell of my ear.

I flinched, my heart kicking against my ribs. "What?"

I turned in his arms, the water swirling around us. For a second, I was certain he’d seen the images of David and Brock flashing behind my eyes.

"Your shoulders," he clarified, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He reached up, his thumbs digging into the knots of tension at the base of my neck. The pressure was perfect, a methodical dismantling of my stress. "You’re carrying the whole Smithsonian in your traps. Just be in the pool, Jess. Be here with me."

The water felt thicker, more intimate. I yielded to his touch, the buoyancy of the pool making it easy to forget why I should be walking away. He didn't let go. His fingers continued their work, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.

Hunter’s hands tightened on my waist, pulling me through the resistance of the water until the heat of his thighs pressed against mine. I placed my palms on his chest, the wet skin slick and firm, his heart drumming a steady, invitations-only rhythm against my fingertips. The air between us was a static charge.

"A swimming lesson. Fun."

The voice cut through the humidity and we both turned. Brock stood at the edge of the blue, his shadow stretching across the surface. He pulled his shirt over his head, the muscles of his back rippling with raw power, and launched himself into the deep end. I let out a startled squeak as the resulting splash hit my face.

He surfaced between us, shaking his head to send droplets of water flying from his hair. He looked so good it made my pussy tighten underwater. Every muscle in his torso popped, the light catching the hard ridges of his abs and the deep, V-shaped lines disappearing into his trunks.

"Hunter’s a counselor, Jess. He’s good for a chat," Brock said, his hand sliding over the small of my back. He drew me away from Hunter and toward his own solid mass. "I’m the one who knows how to optimize your output."

The water between us was a conductor. But Hunter hadn’t let go of my waist. He pulled me back. The friction of my swimsuit against his bare skin generated a charge that left me torn in two. He explained the mechanics of a proper kick, his voice a low vibration that I felt more in my chest than my ears. Then he reached down, his arm a submerged shadow, and caught my ankle. His fingers traced the bone before sliding up to the sensitive hollow behind my knee, tilting my leg to show me the angle.

"You have to stay fluid, Jess," he murmured. "Don't fight the resistance. Melt into it."

"She’s too low in the water." Brock’s voice was an intrusion. He moved into the space behind me, his proximity a wall of heat. He reached around my ribs, his hands splayed across my stomach to hoist me higher toward the surface. The contrast was a sensory riot. Hunter’s light, teasing grip on my leg and Brock’s crushing, proprietary weight against my back.

I was a live wire between them. As Brock lifted me, my backside pressed into the rigid bulge of his shorts. He didn't flinch or pull away. He held me there, his thumbs tracing the line of my ribs, while Hunter refused to relinquish my leg.

“I’ve never been much of a swimmer,” I said, and gave a short laugh.

Brock’s thumb began a slow, rhythmic circle on the inside of my thigh. “You have the makings of one, that’s for sure.”

"You're restricting her lungs. Let her breathe." Hunter moved closer, keeping me wedged between them. I didn’t see how any swimming could happen in this tug of war.

"I'm keeping her stable," Brock countered. He slid one hand lower, his palm cupping the curve of my hip and pulling me harder against the throbbing ridge of his cock. "She needs a coach, not just someone to play with her in the shallow end."

He passed me back to Hunter with a deliberate slide of his hands. Hunter caught me by the shoulders, his thumbs grazing the straps of my suit, and I sure as fuck didn’t miss the way his eyes zeroed in on my stiff nipples peaking against the thin black fabric of my swimsuit. I was being mapped, claim after claim laid on my skin as they traded me back and forth, their fingers lingering on my calves, my waist, the slope of my neck.

I looked from Brock’s dark, smoldering intensity to Hunter’s bright, competitive hunger. The reality of it hit me with the force of a tidal wave. This wasn't a training session. This was a hunt. And I was the only prize in the room.

The tension pressed in on me from every angle. Every accidental brush of a hip or a chest felt like a promise. Beneath the turquoise surface, the proximity was doing things to my anatomy that the museum archives never could. My pussy was a thrumming, slick ache, reacting to the volume of testosterone hemmed in by the tile walls. I could see the unmistakable, rigid thickening in both their shorts now as they bumped against me. A double-barreled reminder that this wasn't just a workout.

"You're getting distracted, Jess," Hunter teased, his fingers grazing my ribs.

"She's fine," Brock’s gaze burned into mine. "She just needs the right motivation. Five laps. Whoever wins gets to pick the next session's focus."

"And the loser?" Hunter asked, a competitive glint in his blue eyes.

“You guys are taking this way too—”

"The loser stays out of the way and lets me do my job."

They lined up at the wall, a display of masculinity that made my throat dry. The camaraderie was still there, but it was coated in a layer of unchecked dominance.

"Go!" I yelled, slapping the surface of the water with my flat palms.