He thought he was surprising me at the gym. Instead, he got the shock of his life.
My marriage to Leo is solid, loving…and predictable. Our routine was comfortable until I started training with Bram. His hands aren’t just strong, they’re electric. His voice doesn’t just correct my form, it lights a fire low in my belly. I thought the thrill was my secret.
I was wrong.
Leo saw us. He watched from the shadows as Bram spotted me, his face close to mine, his grip firm on my hips. And instead of anger, I saw something else darkening my husband’s eyes: a raw, hungry fascination.
Now, our nights are different. He pulls me close and his questions aren’t accusations, they’re demands. “Tell me what his hands felt like.” The jealousy is gone, replaced by a dangerous, thrilling obsession. He’s hooked on the sight of another man wanting me.
He gave me a tiny, secret gift to wear for Bram. He whispers what he needs me to do. The man I love is addicted to watching, and I’ve become his willing obsession. But watching is just the beginning. His cravings are getting darker, deeper.
How far will we go to feed his new addiction?
Chapter 1: The Spark
“Push, Ania. Last set. Make it count.”
Bram’s voice is a low rumble, a vibration that travels straight from my ear, down my spine, and settles deep between my legs. It’s the kind of voice that commands you to obey, and my body is screaming to do just that.
My muscles burn. Sweat drips from my forehead, tracing a path down my temple and neck. The leg press machine feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, but I push anyway. My world has shrunk to this single, repetitive motion: the strain in my quads, the fire in my ass, and the sound of his voice.
“That’s it. Control the negative. Slowly… slowly.”
His hand rests on my knee, not helping, just… there. A solid point of contact. His fingers are thick, his palm calloused from a life of lifting heavy shit. It’s a purely professional touch, meant to guide my form, but it feels like a brand. My skin tingles under his palm. Down below, Ms. Kitty gives a wet, demanding throb. She doesn’t give a fuck about professional.
I finish the rep, letting the weights settle with a soft clank. I lean my head back, chest heaving, and stare at the industrial ceiling of the gym. My leggings are soaked, clinging to my skin. I worked hard for this body—the long, lean muscles in my legs, the high, firm curve of my ass. In the wall of mirrors opposite me, I see my reflection: a late-twenties woman flushed with effort, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, sweat plastering a few loose strands to her face. I catch a glimpse of the tiny, iridescent hummingbird tattooed on my hip, peeking out from the waistband of my leggings.
I’m proud of this body. I just wish my husband noticed it more.
I love Leo. I really, truly do. He’s kind and smart and he makes me laugh. We have a good life, a comfortable life. But our sex life… it’s gone stale. It’s become a Saturday night routine. A few sweet kisses, a bit of fumbling, and then a predictable, missionary fuck that’s over in ten minutes. It’s nice. It’s loving. But it doesn’t make me sweat. It doesn’t make me ache. It doesn’t make my pussy clench with this kind of desperate, greedy hunger.
For the last three weeks, Bram has made me ache.
“Good work,” he says, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. He offers me a hand up. I take it, and a jolt of pure electricity shoots up my arm as my skin touches his. He’s massive up close. All broad shoulders and thick, powerful arms under a tight black t-shirt. He’s a sculpture of hard lines and raw power, smelling of clean sweat and something else, something primal and male that makes my knees feel weak.
“One more exercise,” he says, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Hip thrusts. I want to see you empty the tank.”
My mouth goes dry. “Okay.” The word comes out as a breathless whisper.
He leads me to a bench and a pre-loaded barbell. The gym is mostly empty at this time of day, just a few die-hards lost in their own worlds of iron and pain. It gives us a sense of privacy that feels dangerous.
“Shoulders on the bench,” he instructs. I do as I’m told, lying back and positioning the heavy bar across my hips. He adjusts it, his knuckles brushing against the thin fabric of my leggings, right over my pubic bone. I suck in a sharp breath. My pussy floods with a fresh wave of heat. I feel so wet I wonder if it’s soaking through.
“Feet flat on the floor. Drive through your heels. Squeeze your glutes at the top. I’m going to spot you, make sure your form is perfect.”
I nod, unable to speak. I grip the bar, my knuckles white.
“Alright, Ania. Up.”
I thrust my hips toward the ceiling, lifting the heavy weight. The burn is immediate, intense.
“Good. Down slow.”
I lower the bar, my hips hovering just inches from the floor.
“Up!”
I drive my hips up again, gritting my teeth against the strain. My whole body is trembling. Bram moves, kneeling on the floor in front of me, his face now level with my crotch. He places his hands firmly on my hip bones, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of my stomach.
“Keep your core tight,” he murmurs. His breath ghosts across my leggings. “Don’t let your back arch. It’s all in the hips. Drive.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. My world is nothing but sensation. The biting pain in my muscles. The weight of the bar. The solid, unyielding pressure of his hands on my hips, holding me, guiding me. The scent of him is overwhelming, intoxicating. With my eyes closed, it’s easy to pretend. Easy to imagine those strong hands are for something else. That his face is buried between my legs, his tongue working magic on my clit.
“Push, Ania. You’ve got more in you.”
I let out a low moan that’s half pain, half pleasure. My hips thrust up again, harder this time. My leggings are stretched tight across my ass, across my wet, needy pussy. He’s so close. So fucking close. If he just leaned forward a few inches, his nose would press right against my clit. The thought sends a white-hot shock through my system.
Ms. Kitty is screaming now. She doesn’t care that we’re in a public gym. She doesn’t care that I have a husband I love. She just wants this. She wants him. She wants his mouth, his fingers, his thick cock.
“Last five,” he says, his voice a low growl. His grip on my hips tightens. “Give me everything.”
“One,” I gasp, thrusting upwards. My lips are parted, my breath coming in short, sharp pants. I feel like I’m about to come.
“Two.” He’s not even looking at my face. His gaze is locked on my hips, on the junction of my thighs, watching the muscles work, watching the fabric strain.
“Three.” A bead of sweat rolls from my hairline and drips onto the floor. I can feel my orgasm building, a tight coil deep in my belly. Can you come from hip thrusts? I’m about to find out.
“Four. Harder.” His fingers dig in, a possessive, claiming pressure.
I see a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, through the massive glass wall that faces the parking lot. A car door closing. I ignore it. Nothing exists but this. This burn. This need.
“Last one, Ania. The best one.”
I let out a guttural cry and drive my hips up with everything I have left, holding the contraction at the top, squeezing my glutes so hard they cramp. My back arches slightly, pushing my crotch forward, just inches from his face. My eyes are squeezed shut, my head thrown back. I’m panting, dripping, completely lost in a haze of physical exertion that feels so much like raw, unadulterated lust. For a second, I forget where I am. I forget everything but the man in front of me and the throbbing between my legs.
And then, I let the weight crash down. I lay there, gasping for air, my body trembling with exhaustion and frustrated arousal.
I don’t see him at first.
My focus is on my own ragged breathing, on the slow fade of adrenaline. But a strange stillness outside the window catches my attention. I slowly, hazily, turn my head.
Standing just on the other side of the glass, half-hidden by the reflection of the gym’s fluorescent lights, is Leo.
My husband.
His car is parked just behind him. He must have come to surprise me. Pick me up after my workout. A sweet, thoughtful gesture.
But there is nothing sweet in his expression.
He’s frozen. His hand is still halfway to the gym door handle, as if he was about to come in but was stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes are wide, locked on me. On the scene he just witnessed. On his wife, panting and soaked in sweat, her legs spread, with another man’s face inches from her crotch, his hands gripping her body. He saw my face, my closed eyes, my parted lips. He saw me looking like I was in the throes of the most intense orgasm of my life.
I feel a cold spike of panic. Busted. He’s going to be so angry. So hurt.
But as I watch, his expression shifts. The initial shock is still there, but it’s being crowded out by something else. Something I’ve never seen on his face before. A flicker of raw jealousy, yes, but it’s immediately swallowed by a dark, hot flush that creeps up his neck. His jaw is tight, but his nostrils flare slightly. His gaze isn’t angry anymore. It’s… hungry.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t storm in. He doesn’t turn and walk away.
He just stands there, watching.
And he can’t look away.
