Chapter 10: Locker Room Shower

Sarah Thompson eased her car into the familiar shadowed slot, the dashboard clock blinking 9:33 p.m. like a countdown she could no longer slow. Forty-eight hours since Mike had bent her over the flat bench and filled her until his release had leaked down her thighs on the drive home, and the memory still sat heavy between her legs every time she shifted. She had replayed it in the shower that morning, fingers slipping through the slick mess of her own arousal while Dave snored on the other side of the wall. The guilt had tasted metallic again, but it hadn’t stopped her from choosing tonight’s outfit with deliberate care: the same snug black leggings that hugged every generous curve of her hips and thighs, paired with a thin white tank that already clung to the heavy swell of her 34DD breasts. Underneath, a black lace thong barely covered anything at all. She told herself it was practical. Better airflow during the workout. The lie felt ridiculous even in her own head.

The gym doors sighed open to the usual hush of cool, conditioned air laced with rubber and faint lemon cleaner. Only the distant buzz of the overhead lights and the low mechanical hum of the ventilation greeted her. No other members tonight. Mike stood near the free-weight area, black tank already darkened with a faint sheen across his chest from whatever warm-up he’d done earlier. When he saw her, his hazel eyes darkened with that new, unmistakable hunger. “Sarah,” he said, voice low enough to curl around her spine. “You look like you’ve been thinking about last time.”

She didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Heat bloomed low in her core as he stepped close, close enough that the clean, cedar-tinged scent of his skin mixed with the faint salt of fresh sweat and made her mouth water. They ran through a real workout first—Romanian deadlifts that had his hands anchoring her hips longer than necessary, Bulgarian split squats where his palm slid under the hem of her tank to press flat against her bare lower back. Every correction felt like foreplay now, his fingers tracing the lace edge of her thong through the thin fabric of her leggings when no one could see. By the time they finished the last set, Sarah was soaked, the lace between her folds clinging wet and useless, her nipples stiff peaks against the white tank.

Mike wiped his forehead with the hem of his tank, the motion revealing the sharp cut of his abs and the dark line of hair disappearing into his shorts. “Cool-down in the locker room,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward the women’s side. “Showers are empty. No one’s coming back tonight.”

Her pulse spiked. She followed him down the short hallway, sneakers quiet on the tile, heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. The women’s locker room was dim and silent, the air already thick with humidity from an earlier user. Mike locked the main door behind them with a soft click that sounded louder than it should. Steam curled lazily from the large open shower stall as he turned the water on full, hot and pounding against the white tile. He pulled her inside fully clothed at first, the spray soaking them both instantly.