Chapter 177 Fucking My Personal Trainer?
I lay on my back, sheets tangled around my thighs, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning slow lazy circles. Mark pulled out of me with that same half-hearted grunt he always gave, his cock going soft before he even finished the last weak push. I’d been soaked—God, I’m always soaked the second he touches me, that slick heat building fast between my legs like my body can’t help itself—but it never mattered to him. He rolled off, sighed heavy like I’d exhausted him, and reached for his phone on the nightstand without even glancing my way.
“You’re wet,” he said, voice flat, eyes already on the screen. “But Jesus, Lara, you just lie there like a dead fish. No movement. No sound. It’s like fucking a pillow.”
The words hit hard, same as always, sharp enough to make my chest tighten. I forced a small laugh that sounded pathetic even to me. “I was trying. I get into it, I swear.”
He snorted. “Yeah, well, try harder. Or watch some porn. I bought you that vibrator last month—use it. Learn something. Maybe then you won’t feel like a chore.”
I turned my face away so he wouldn’t see my eyes burn. The vibrator was still in its box in the drawer because every time I even thought about opening it, his voice crawled back into my head: You’re boring in bed. I slid out from under the covers, legs shaky, and walked to the bathroom without another word.
The shower was my only hiding place. I stepped under the hot spray, let the water pound my skin until steam filled the glass. I pressed my forehead to the tile and cried—quiet, ugly sobs that mixed with the water running down my face. My hand drifted down my stomach almost without permission. Fingers brushed my clit, still swollen and tender from the sex that wasn’t really sex, and a tiny jolt shot through me.
I circled slowly, biting my lip. Why am I like this? I thought. I get so fucking wet. I feel every little touch. But he makes it sound like something’s wrong with me. My fingers slipped lower, dipping into the slick mess between my folds. I was dripping, pussy clenching around nothing, greedy for more. I pictured someone else—someone who actually looked at me like they wanted to devour me. Hands gripping my hips hard. A mouth on my neck. A thick cock sliding in slow, stretching me the way Mark never bothered to. My breath hitched. My thighs shook. But I stopped. It felt too pathetic, coming in the shower to my own sad little fantasies while my husband scrolled downstairs.
I dried off, wrapped the towel tight, and stared at myself in the fogged mirror. Something snapped. I wasn’t crying anymore. I was angry. And I was done.
I grabbed my phone, scrolled until I found Elite Pulse Fitness. Upscale. Expensive. The website promised “personalized transformation” and “expert trainers who actually push you.” I booked the free trial HIIT class for tomorrow morning and the complimentary private assessment that came with it. If I fix my body, I told myself, maybe he’ll finally want me. Or maybe I’ll finally want myself.
The next morning I stood in front of my closet, heart thumping too loud. I pulled out my favorite black leggings—the ones that hugged every curve of my ass and thighs—and the cropped sports bra that left a strip of my stomach bare. I felt exposed already, nipples tightening against the fabric just from the thought of walking into that gym. But that was the point. I wanted to feel seen.
The drive was a blur of nerves and that low, restless throb between my legs that hadn’t really left since last night. Elite Pulse smelled like clean rubber mats, citrus sanitizer, and expensive men’s cologne. I signed in, hands a little sweaty on the tablet. The girl at the desk smiled. “You’re in Jax’s 10 a.m. HIIT. He’s the best. You’ll love it.”
I nodded, forced a smile, and walked into the studio. Mats were already laid out. Mostly women my age, all toned and focused. I took a spot in the back row, unrolled my mat, tried to breathe.
Then the door opened.
Jax walked in and every molecule in my body noticed.
He was huge—easily six-four—with shoulders that stretched his black tank top to the limit. His arms were thick, veins running along his forearms like ropes. Tattoos curled up one bicep and disappeared under the sleeve. Sweat already shone on his skin, making the dark hair on his chest stick to the deep V of his shirt. His shorts rode low on narrow hips, and when he turned to mess with the speakers, I couldn’t stop my eyes from dropping to the way the fabric cupped his ass. Firm. Round. Powerful.
He clapped once, voice deep and rough. “Alright, ladies. Let’s get sweaty. Legs and core today. Squats, lunges, planks. Form first, pain second. You know the drill.”
The music kicked in—bass-heavy, pulsing—and we started. Jumping jacks, mountain climbers. My thighs burned fast. Sweat beaded between my breasts, trickled down my spine. But every time I looked up, Jax was there at the front, demonstrating with easy power. The way his quads flexed when he squatted made my mouth go dry. I tried to focus on my own body, but my mind kept slipping. What would those hands feel like? Not just brushing past. Gripping. Owning.
Then came the squats.
“Drop it low,” he called, pacing between rows. “Ass back, chest up. Like you’re sitting in a chair that’s too far behind you.”
I bent my knees, lowered myself, felt my leggings pull tight across my pussy. The seam pressed right against my clit with every rep. I was already warm down there—too warm—and as I rose and dropped again, I caught him looking. Not a glance. A stare. His eyes locked on my ass, jaw flexing. He slowed his steps, came closer to my row.
He’s watching me, I thought, heat rushing to my face. My ass. My body.