The gym was called Iron & Oak, a boutique fitness club with a locker room that smelled like eucalyptus and ambition. I’d been training there for six months — early mornings, because Sloane taught the 6 AM class and because I’d developed an addiction to the way she looked at me when I held a plank longer than anyone else.
Sloane was the head trainer. Thirty. She had shoulders that looked carved from the same wood as the benches and a habit of “checking in” with clients after class. Today was leg day. I’d showered. I’d wrapped myself in a white towel. And I’d sat on the bench to lotion my legs when Sloane walked around the corner.
“The shower is still running behind you,” I whispered, looking up at her from the bench. My towel was tucked tight, but my shoulders were bare, my hair was wet, and my skin was still flushed from the hot water. Sloane was standing in front of me in her black sports bra and shorts, a towel around her neck, her hand on my knee. “Three women just walked out. The front desk girl is doing rounds. The hair dryers are going. And your hand is on my knee, not your gym bag. You’re supposed to be giving me my post-workout stretch. Not sliding your palm up my thigh. Not pressing your thumb into my skin. Not—”
Sloane didn’t speak. She just leaned in, her cheek brushing my wet shoulder, her hand sliding from my knee to my thigh, then under the edge of my towel, finding me bare and ready and completely unprepared for this kind of recovery.
“If another member walks around that corner,” I breathed, my voice trembling as her fingers traced my inner thigh, “she’ll see my trainer with her hand inside my towel. She’ll see your sports bra against my bare skin and your mouth on my neck on this wooden bench and the steam from the showers turning everything into a dream and she’ll know that the cooldown wasn’t in the workout plan. She’ll know that while other women dry their hair, I’m being stretched in ways that aren’t covered by my membership—”
She turned my face toward her with a hand on my jaw. Her mouth found mine. A kiss that tasted like chlorine and sweat and the exact moment when a locker room becomes a lockbox for secrets. Her tongue slid against mine, her hand sliding deeper inside my towel, her thumb finding my clit with a precision that was completely devastating.
The shower turned off.
Footsteps. Wet feet on tile. The front desk girl’s voice — Jen, twenty-two, enthusiastic, completely unaware.
“Sloane? Your 8 AM client is here early! Should I send her back?”
Sloane didn’t pull away. She just pressed her other hand over my mouth, her fingers still moving inside me, her eyes locked on mine.
“Give us five minutes, Jen!” Sloane called out, her voice perfectly steady, completely at odds with the fingers that were currently curling inside me. “Just doing a deep tissue recovery session!”
“Okay! I’ll have her warm up!”
Sloane looked at me. The locker room was steamy, loud, completely public.
“Your recovery starts now,” she whispered against my mouth, her thumb circling my clit, her fingers pressing deeper, finding a rhythm that matched my heartbeat. “And I’m not letting you dress until you’re done. Until every muscle is relaxed. Until you forget where you are. Until you only know my name.”
She made me come on the bench. Her fingers inside me, her mouth on my breast, my towel falling open, the steam hiding everything and nothing. I came with her hand over my mouth, my cry swallowed by the sound of the hair dryers, my body shaking so hard the bench creaked against the lockers.
After, she handed me my gym bag. Kissed my forehead.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked.
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
I still train at Iron & Oak. I still shower after class. And every morning, Sloane meets me at the bench with a towel around her neck and hunger in her eyes. She says my recovery time has improved. She says my flexibility is “off the charts.” She says I’m her most dedicated client.
She’s right. I am. And the only thing more dedicated than my training is my refusal to wear underwear to the gym.
