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Page 1 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)

CALYX

O ne of the many occupational hazards of being a model, because there are surprisingly a lot, is I never stop posing.

“Look at you.”

I tilt my head, knowing exactly where my light is, and fix my attention on my long-time manager. Marcus is fresh out of the shower, wearing only a towel and holding my cat in one of his perfectly sculpted arms. With the other, he reaches out to slide his fingers along my jawline.

As he takes up the space I’ve left available on the chaise, he promptly deposits the cat onto my outstretched lap.

Ignoring the man, I hug Siva to my chest and bury my nose in her soft fur, snuggling her close.

It’s a wonder we got separated. She must have been trying to steal water from the tap when Marcus went into the bathroom for his shower.

I’m not surprised he didn’t send her away.

She’s the most beautiful cat in San Francisco, and Marcus has an eye for beauty.

She should probably be a model, too. She’s a breed marvel, a champagne mink Tonkinese with a buff-colored body, dark markings on her face and tail, and big, bright, aqua eyes.

She’s also exactly as advertised—overly attached and affectionate.

A velcro cat. My baby. Worth every penny.

But I’d never force her into the limelight the way I once was, subjecting her to the harsh, critical gazes I’ve been subject to over the years.

“If I had my phone handy,” Marcus says because his gazes for me are rarely, if ever, harsh.

“No photos,” I tell him. “You have a job to get to.”

“You are my job,” he reminds me. He runs a hand up my calf, stopping briefly at the bend in my knee before realizing once again that once he starts touching me, he has trouble stopping. The stroke becomes repetitive, his expression pained and pensive.

Marcus’s gaze tracks the path of his hand.

I’m dressed in a tank and satin boy shorts, so he has plenty of leg to work with and skin I keep silky and smooth.

I’m expecting him to leave, though. Hopeful for it.

I’m not up for another round. It took him forever to get off last night.

So long, I considered asking if I was the problem since I’m not getting any younger, or if he was dealing with some dysfunction, but he stayed hard well enough, answering both questions without my needing to ask.

My guess is he’s got a lot on his mind. In fact, he seems to be working himself up to say something to me. Otherwise, his hand would be moving up my thigh by now.

Finally, he comes out with it. “I need you back at work, angel.”

“But I do work. I have two classes to teach today,” I say, intentionally avoiding his meaning.

He shoots me an admonishing look. So handsome when he’s annoyed or angry or frustrated.

Handsome in general. A white man with rich, brown, stylishly overgrown hair and a natural tan.

His eyes are piercing and blue like Siva’s.

He’s chiseled and symmetrical, and he keeps his body in fantastic shape.

He was a model once, too. He still could be, but as a husband and father, he chose model management as a way to “settle down.” He still travels constantly, but I suppose his life has a bit more routine than a busy, working model’s does.

The hours may be slightly better. I know for a fact he doesn’t show up to five a.m. runway show calls.

He strolls in around eight, always looking dashing and well-rested.

“Italian Vogue ?” he says, trying to tempt me.

“Did they ask for me?”

“They’re waiting for you.”

“Nothing local?” I ask.

Marcus sighs. “Did you develop a fear of flying you didn’t tell me about?”

“You know it’s not about the flights,” I say.

“Then what? Is it the cat?”

It’s not about the cat, either. I have friends I trust with Siva when I travel.

The reason I’m not leaping at the chance to shoot a spread for Italian Vogue is standard issue burnout.

I thought taking a few months off from modeling would shake me loose from the ennui, but it’s only gotten me more used to home.

More ensconced. I worked enough last year to be able to afford ample time off, but I also worked too much.

I was barely ever home. I calculated my miles once, and it was more than flying around the world twice.

“I’d consider American Vogue ,” I tell him.

He arches a brow. “Is that so?”

I give him a simple shrug, not committing.

Marcus lets out an exasperated sigh. “Aren’t you out of money yet?”

“Are you?” I ask. “Is that why you’re being so persistent? Are your other clients not performing for you?”

“I’m fine.” His brows pinch. “I’m worried about you.”

“How sweet,” I say, not without sincerity.

Marcus has several major money-makers on his roster.

His firm represents the A-list of the modeling industry.

I’d hardly consider myself an A-list model, hence American Vogue’s persistent lack of interest in me.

My androgyny makes me unique but challenging to cast. I’m either a gem or a lump of coal. It’s all in the eye of the beholder.

Even Marcus has to be in the mood for me.

He’s based in LA, and while I’m not his only client in San Francisco, I’m clearly the one he came to see this weekend since this is the second morning in a row he’s woken up here.

Not that I’m complaining. He’s the only action I get these days since I stopped seeing Isaac—my last semi-serious situation.

Isaac only lasted a handful of months. He was my type, but, sadly, I wasn’t his. He required more attention, and I required life without a leash, metaphorically speaking. Though I wouldn’t put it past Isaac to try and leash a lover.

What can I say? I’m not for everyone. Men have to be in the mood for me. I’m a mood fuck. Every boy’s dream. “Was that the problem last night?” I ask Marcus.

His brows pull together into a full scowl. “What do you mean? What problem?”

“It took you a minute is all…more than a minute.”

He takes his hand off my leg and sits straighter. “Excuse me?”

“I’m only asking if you’re stressed,” I say.

“No. You’re asking if something’s wrong with my cock when you’re the one who didn’t come.”

“I—” My mouth closes in a pout.

I thought I faked it better than that.

“ I was exerting self-control waiting on you ,” he says. “What’s your excuse?”

Maybe he’s right to be worried about me.

I haven’t put it into so many words yet, but I may be slightly depressed.

My erection lasted all of five minutes last night and deflated almost the instant he stopped kissing me.

Once he stuffed my ass with his cock, I left my body, and I don’t mean that in the transcendent sex way. I just sort of—switched off.

Maybe the sex didn’t take as long as it felt like it had.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “It wasn’t you. I must’ve had too much to drink.”

“Ah,” he says in understanding.

“You have plenty of people to fuck,” I add, refusing to feel bad about my lackluster performance. “Your wife included.”

“My wife has me on a once a month schedule, and that’s only if I’m in the right place at the right time.”

I often wonder how many more lovers Marcus has besides me.

I can’t imagine him going a week, much less a month without sticking his dick in someone.

But I do think I’m the only man he fucks, which I’d like to say is an honor, but probably has more to do with how I don’t really look all that much like a man.

Truth be told, I’m concerned about not coming last night, too.

Marcus is good in bed. Great, even. It wasn’t for lack of finesse or effort.

I just wasn’t feeling it. He doesn’t love me—and the feeling is mutual. Therefore, we use each other, and while I’m used to being used for my body, or my face—whichever—I, too, need to be in the mood.

“Sorry,” I say, speaking generally.

“I do need to go,” he says. “Speaking of my wife, I have a family situation—and yeah—I’ve got things on my mind. But I’d like to come back tonight, then I’ll fly out tomorrow and leave you alone.”

Leave me alone.

Alone.

“Dance party?” I ask, trying to perk myself up.

He chuckles. “If it helps.”

“Can’t hurt.” Maybe if I have a few drinks—not too many, put on some music, grind with him some, maybe I’ll get into the mood and give him a decent send off until next time. It’s not like I want to lose my spot in his rotation.

Men like Marcus don’t grow on trees. It’s too bad he’s so straight and married, though.

He’s everything I would want in a partner.

Older, sophisticated, intelligent, mature, handsome, rich.

Of course he’s not single. Isaac was at least single and gay, but while he met all the other criteria, he was a lot .

The kind of man who needs a total firecracker of a person, which, these days, I am not .

“I can’t wait to see what you’ll wear,” Marcus says, regarding the proposed dance party.

“You can always text your requests.”

He pats his thigh, indicating a desire for me to sit on his lap.

With Siva still in my arms, I move languidly, draping myself across him and giving him a nice view of my face up close.

He tips his head back to look at me. “Gorgeous,” he says softly.

I give him a faint smile.

As he studies me, his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Are you all right?”

“I’d be better if you stopped asking. You’re giving me a complex.”

“I was going to say if there’s anything I can do, but it feels like you want me to back off.”

“I’m not your problem to fix,” I say.

“You’re my client, and I have an interest in your well-being.”

“I’m not quitting modeling,” I tell him with some regret. “But for the moment, yeah. I’d like you to back off.”

He sighs. “We’re not done talking about this.”

“Oh, but we are.” I kiss my cat and give him a smart ass smile. “For now.”

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