The gym smelled like rubber mats and faint sweat, the late-morning light cutting through the high warehouse windows in long golden beams. I spotted her near the free weights—Aila Donovan. My stomach flipped the second I recognised that tight, athletic body I’d fantasised about for years. She was even more stunning in person: compact and sculpted, dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail that swayed with every movement, sharp cheekbones, full lips, and those intense espresso eyes that seemed to notice everything without trying. Her black sports bra hugged her toned torso, and her matching leggings clung to the firm curve of her ass and the long, lean lines of her thighs. Everything about her screamed controlled power and quiet sensuality.

I wasn’t ugly—six feet tall, decent shoulders, short brown hair, a face people usually described as approachable—but next to her I felt invisible. Shy as hell. I kept my glances quick and respectful, pretending to focus on my own curls while my eyes kept drifting back to the way her body moved with effortless precision. She was finishing a set of Romanian deadlifts, hips hinging perfectly, back flat, and every rise made my pulse spike.

She noticed the looks. Of course she did. Women like Aila were used to stares, but she didn’t seem annoyed. Instead, a small, private smile touched her lips, like she appreciated that I wasn’t crowding her or trying to interrupt her flow. She finished her set, racked the bar, and wiped her brow, the motion making the lean muscles in her arms and shoulders flex beautifully.

A few minutes later she moved to the bench press. The bar was loaded conservatively. She scanned the room, then her gaze landed on me again.

“Hey,” she called, voice low and smoky in that way I knew from every video. “Mind spotting me for a couple reps? Just for safety.”

Heat flooded my face. I nodded before I could overthink it and walked over. Up close she smelled like clean sweat mixed with something warm and sweet—vanilla and citrus. I positioned myself at the head of the bench, hands ready near the bar. When she lay back, her ponytail fanned across the pad and her dark eyes met mine for a brief second.

“Three controlled reps,” she said softly.

I watched the bar descend to her chest and rise again, her core tight, breathing steady. My hands hovered, ready, but I kept my focus professional even though being this close made my shorts feel suddenly tighter. When she finished she sat up, flushed and smiling.

“Thanks. You’re a gentleman. Most guys can’t help themselves once they recognise me.”

I managed a awkward laugh. “No problem at all.”

I retreated to my corner, heart hammering, cock half-hard for the rest of my workout. I finished quickly, wiped down my equipment, and headed for the exit, gym bag over my shoulder.

I was almost out the door when quick footsteps caught up behind me.

“Hey—wait!”

It was her. She’d pulled a loose hoodie over her sports bra, zipper halfway down, ponytail slightly loosened with a few strands framing her face. She looked a little breathless from hurrying.

“I just wanted to thank you again,” she said, stopping a polite distance away. “Seriously. Most men either get completely tongue-tied when they figure out who I am or turn into total creeps. You just helped without making it weird. It was ... nice. Normal.”