Closet Heat with My Ex-Trainer

I shoved through the side door of the gala, desperate to escape the sea of bad cologne and worse small talk, only to realize Callum had followed me into the cramped storage closet. Perfect. Six months since I’d fired him as my personal trainer for hovering a little too close during Romanian deadlifts, and here we were, boxed in with a stack of folding chairs and the unmistakable scent of his cheap post-workout body wash cutting through the champagne fog clinging to my dress. Through the wall, the muffled swell of the string quartet sawed on, oblivious.

“Stalking your former clients now?” I leaned back against a folding table, putting whatever distance the cramped room allowed between us. “Or did you just come in here to tell me my posture in stilettos is compromising my lumbar spine?”

“Actually, your form is terrible,” he deadpanned, and stepped into my space without a fraction of hesitation. “You fired me for standing too close.” His eyes dragged down the silk and back up. “Imagine what I figure this earns me.”

“It earns you a restraining order.”

“You signed my last paycheck six months ago. You don’t get to fire me twice.” The sheer mass of him crowded me against the edge of the table, his dress shirt crisp and his eyes anything but. Whatever clever follow-up I’d chambered evaporated somewhere behind my teeth.

“You’re a menace,” I breathed.

“And you talk too much.” Then his mouth crashed down on mine.

It hit like a shot of pure adrenaline—and tasted like the champagne still on my tongue, gone sharp and electric where it met him. I didn’t have time to blink before his hands were on me, heavy and demanding, bulldozing through every social boundary we’d ever drawn. I fisted handfuls of his starched shirt and hauled him closer, my pulse rocketing from zero to a hundred in a single beat. He shoved me backward until the edge of the table caught the backs of my thighs, and then his weight tipped me into him instead of away, his hands sliding down to grip my hips like he had every right to them.

“This is a terrible idea,” I gasped against his mouth, even as I dragged him in by his belt loops.

“Worst one I’ve ever had.” His breath was already ragged, and that did something unholy to me—knowing I could unravel the man who once lectured me about resting heart rates. “Breathe,” he murmured against my jaw, and the bastard meant it, the old cue turned filthy. “Slow. In through the nose.”

“Don’t you dare coach me.”

“Somebody has to. Look at you—heart rate’s a mess.” He pressed his thigh between mine, and the first roll of his hips was almost cruel in how good it felt. Layers of silk and suit fabric between us, and still the friction punched an embarrassing sound right out of my throat. My dress was a thin barrier, his dress pants thinner armor over the hard line of him, and he ground against me slow and deliberate, like he had all night and intended to use it.

“Is this part of the new mobility routine?” I managed, though my hips were already rocking up to meet his, chasing that pressure.

“Time under tension,” he said, infuriatingly even, and held me right there—not enough, never enough, the seam of my underwear catching the friction at exactly the wrong angle. “Control the movement. Don’t rush the rep.” He rocked into me, slow, then denied me the next stroke entirely, and I could have screamed. Somewhere behind us a folding chair clattered off the stack and neither of us flinched.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I gritted out, dragging my nails up his neck.

“I’m enjoying it exactly as much as I should.” But his control was fraying at the edges—I could feel it in the stutter of his breath when I hooked one leg over his hip and ground up into him, in the wrecked sound he made against my neck. There. I had him. He shoved my dress up to my waist with both hands, baring my thighs, and his palm dragged up the inside of one until his fingers caught the wet cotton of my panties.

“These,” he rasped, “are in my way.”

“Less talking.” The line cracked down the middle. “You’re supposed to be good with your hands.”

He went still—and smiled against my throat in a way I felt down to my heels. “Now you want my opinion on form.”

He hooked two fingers in the drenched fabric and dragged it to the side, the cool air hitting bare skin a beat before he touched me—and then he made good on the promise. Slow circles, maddeningly precise, the same patient attention he’d once paid to correcting my squat depth, now turned to ruin me. He worked two fingers in deep and curled them, and the heel of his palm settled against me, and I bit down on his shoulder to keep from being heard through the wall.

“There it is,” he murmured, reading me like a rep count, feeling everything wind tighter. “Right there. Don’t fight it.”

“I’m not—” But I was, hips bucking against his hand, climbing, the pressure coiling unbearably tight, my thighs starting to shake around his wrist. He felt me hit the edge and stopped dead.

“Ask me,” he said.

“Go to hell.”

He twitched his fingers, just barely, and I broke. “Please—Callum—”

That undid whatever restraint he had left. He fumbled his belt open one-handed, the buckle clinking, and shoved his dress pants and briefs down just far enough to free himself. The thick head of his cock dragged hot and slick through where his fingers had just been, notching against me, and then he gripped my hip and drove in with one heavy thrust. The stretch tore a raw sound out of me, my walls clenching tight around every inch as he bottomed out.

He planted one forearm flat on the table beside my head, caging me, and caught both my wrists in his other hand, pressing them down by my shoulder. His chest dropped against mine, pinning my torso, and his arm shook with the strain of holding himself over me—honest effort, jaw tight, and God, I wanted to live in the sight of it.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he rasped, low and serious. “Take it. Just like that. Count them for me.”

“You’re insane.”

“One,” he said, and snapped his hips, and the word punched the breath out of me.

He set a relentless pace, the wet slap of skin filling the tiny room, the gala droning on through the wall like the whole gilded world had no idea what its hostess was doing six inches from their canapés. My dress was rucked to my waist, his shirt clinging to both of us, the panties he’d shoved aside still cutting a damp line against my thigh.

“You wanted this six months ago,” he breathed against my ear, and there it was—the thing neither of us had said. “Fired me so you wouldn’t have to admit it.”

“Don’t flatter—” I gasped as he ground deep “—yourself.”

“Then tell me to stop.” He slowed, cruel, holding himself there. “Boss.”

I should have. I dug my heels into the backs of his thighs and dragged him deeper instead. “Harder. Don’t you dare stop.”

That broke the last of the trainer’s composure clean off him. He drove deeper, the table creaking under the force, his chest pressing me flatter with every thrust. The coil he’d built and abandoned came roaring back—I felt it gather low and merciless, my whole body tightening around the warning of it, my breath sawing ragged, every muscle reaching for the edge he’d denied me before. I fought it for one delirious second, wanting to make it last, and then he ground in right where I needed and I had no choice left.

I came with his name half-bitten behind my teeth, my pussy pulsing hard around his cock, my legs shaking violently against his hips. He fucked me straight through it, his rhythm never faltering until it stuttered, his cock jerking deep as he came with a strangled sound, heat flooding me in thick pulses.

Afterward we stayed exactly where we’d landed, collapsed against the hard wood, both our chests heaving. His grip slackened around my wrists, but he didn’t pull back, his face still buried against my neck.

“So,” I said, when I could speak. My voice came out wrecked, which annoyed me. “You’re rehired.”

He huffed a laugh into my collarbone. “I don’t think so. I work better when you can’t fire me.”

And the worst part—the part I’d never admit, with his weight still pinning me and his heart slamming against mine—was that for the first time in six months, I wasn’t entirely sure which of us had just gotten what we wanted.