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Page 34 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)

CALYX

T he first thing I think when Samuel’s number shows up as an incoming call on my phone Saturday afternoon is that he tore his hamstring again.

Why the fuck else would he call me in the middle of the day when he’s supposed to be training?

“Hello?”

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asks, sounding perfectly fine. My suspicion deepens.

“Nothing,” I answer honestly. I mean, technically, I was looking up more partner yoga positions to try with him, but he doesn’t need to know everything. “Are you okay?”

“I’m by myself at the gym. You should come down and check it out.”

I straighten in my chair. “How are you by yourself?”

“It’s somebody’s birthday, and they’re all going out. But did you hear the part where I asked you to come down here? Are you busy?”

I look around my apartment like there’s someone else here he might be talking to. I genuinely think this is the first time he’s called me. It feels sort of major. “No,” I finally say. “But what am I gonna do when I get there?”

“Kick a bag? Let me put you in an arm bar. Whatever you want.”

I snort. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

What can I say—I’m just happy to be invited. “Yeah, what’s the address?”

“I’m texting it to you.”

Sure enough, he follows through, and I debate whether to take another shower. My hair looks good, though.

Wait.

Me

What does all by yourself mean. Like NO ONE else is there?

Samuel

NO ONE

I laugh.

Me

Does that happen a lot? How long will it last?

Samuel

No clue, so don’t come up in here looking like a slob, k?

My fucking cheeks hurt.

Samuel

Text me when you get here so I can let you in.

I get dressed in my nicest workout clothes, giddy, like I’ve had three glasses of champagne, and the next is on the way.

I know he was kidding about me looking like a slob.

I never look that bad, but it’s also been a couple of weeks since he’s asked me out, and I don’t want to seem like I don’t appreciate it.

I also don’t know what an arm bar is, but I’m looking forward to finding out.

His training gym takes up most of the lower level of a four story building at the foot of the hill in Pac Heights. The other storefront is a smoothie shop which I guess is convenient for the people who train here. When the door opens, I’m greeted with a sweat-soaked Samuel sporting a huge smile.

“Oh my god, you’re disgusting!” Also, I want to cover myself in his sweat, lick it off his thighs and rub my face in it.

He laughs, pulls me inside, then presses his whole sweaty self to me, including his mouth and his damp scruff. Obviously I don’t resist. In fact, I grab him by the shoulders, jump off the floor and wrap my legs around him.

He goes the extra mile and rubs his forehead against my neck to mark me with his scent, I guess, but that shit goes both ways. I wore extra fragrance, too. When he comes up for air, still holding me, I take a look around.

“Okay, this place is way bigger than I was picturing.”

“Want the tour?” he asks.

“Sure.”

He sets me down, but then turns, apparently wanting me to hop on his back.

“I can walk,” I tell him.

“Look, I’m in the middle of a workout, so make this tour worth my time. I already know where everything is.”

I hop on. He gives me the piggyback tour. “That’s the octagon, which is obvious, but I figured I’d point it out since I feel like you haven’t ever heard of MMA.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and make sure he understands his life is in my hands. “It that regulation size? ”

“Yes,” he says.

“It seems small.”

“What is with this size obsession all of a sudden?”

“It’s not all of a sudden, babe.” Because I sometimes just call him babe now and he doesn’t even notice.

He laughs. “Cardio,” he says as we pass a row of treadmills and bikes. “Grappling mats.”

“I’m very interested in those,” I tell him.

“But this is what I wanted to show you.”

We walk into a forest of hanging punching bags. Everything is red and black in here except for one random blue mat.

“Are there workout machines somewhere?”

“Yep. There’s a weight room, a break room, a locker room, the coaches’ offices. Tour’s done, though. We’re gonna punch some shit.”

I kick lightly at one of the lower hanging bags. “Is this gonna give me a body like yours?”

“God, I hope not, but if it does, we’ll figure it out.”

I blink up at him, but he’s already turning around and picking something up from the floor.

Those words…they feel ridiculously important in a way I’m not sure I can process with him bent over in front of me, or even when he stands up and hands me a pair of gloves.

I flick my gaze up to his as a shuddery sensation moves through me.

Fuck, I need him to make a joke or something.

But he’s not talking. He’s gotten hold of one of my hands, and he’s strapping the glove on for me.

He does the same with my other hand then holds his fists up for a bump.

I do it while my insides swirl. He doesn’t seem to notice I’m swooning hard . We’ll figure it out? We will? He puts his hands on my hips and squares off in front of me. “Put your feet shoulder width apart,” he says.

I do because he’s doing it, too .

“Now drop one foot straight back and find your balance between them.”

I mirror him. He moves his right leg, so I move my left.

“That’s fighting stance,” he tells me. He rocks forward and back a few times. “Or we also call it ready position. Feel how you can move any way you want to, but you’re stabilized on the back leg?”

Is he speaking English? “Uh-huh.”

He holds up his hands, palms out, facing me.

“So if you punch with your front arm, that’s a jab. With your back arm, that’s a cross. Give me a jab-cross.”

I aim for his right hand and throw a couple light punches.

He throws one, too, tapping me softly on the jaw. “Forgot to tell you to put your guard up.” He demonstrates, shielding his face with both fists. “This is actually important.”

“Is this how you keep people from breaking your nose?”

“Yep.”

“Or busting your lip? Giving you a black eye?”

“All manner of facial injuries,” he says, “Yes. Also, it’s easier to punch someone in the face from here.”

He makes me try it again and tells me not to lock my elbow, but then he says not to have noodle arms, and I get confused.

“It’s strong and quick,” he says, turning to the bag and giving it several punches in a complicated combination that lasts less than three seconds. “If you lock your elbows you can’t be quick, but you gotta mean it, too.”

I’m better at Kung Fu than I am at this, but he gets me into a rhythm punching the bag. Jab, jab, cross, jab, jab, cross, keep my guard up, jab, jab, cross.

I definitely feel it in my core, which, in part, explains his abs. He coaches and critiques me constantly. Incredibly bossy.

“I don’t know if I ever told you this, but tough love doesn’t really work on me,” I snap at him when he tells me I punch like an old lady.

He responds with, “We’ll test that theory on the mats here in a minute.”

“What’s an arm bar anyway?” I ask.

“It’s a submission.”

“Ooo… Will I need a safe word?”

He snorts a laugh. “I’ll teach you how to tap out.”

“Good luck taking me on the mat,” I say. “I’m very clever on most flat surfaces. Lots of tricks you haven’t seen yet.”

He stops punching his bag. “Oh yeah?”

I switch my stance like I’ve watched him do a few times and start jabbing with my other arm. “Yep. I’m no one-trick pony.”

“Are you saying I am?”

We’ve had sex at least once a day since we started having sex, but we only did it face to face the first time when I was so desperate to have him I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

I don’t think this is on purpose so much as a lack of forethought or happenstance.

Looking someone in the eyes while they’re fucking me has never been my go-to, honestly, and I always thought this was for vanity purposes because I’m a little afraid of what I look like when I’m being fucked, but also it’s just efficient to stick my ass out and let a guy get off.

Since Samuel and I play and tease each other rather than actually get intimate, he’s got a tendency to flip me over, give me a light spanking, and prove he’s all big and tough and can make me come hands-free.

Also, I’m pretty sure he gets off on watching himself plow my ass.

“I wasn’t even talking about you,” I say. “You’re so self-absorbed.”

“All right,” he says, tugging at his gloves. “Gloves are coming off. Meet me on the mat.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I say laughing and holding him off when he charges me. “Why do you like this?” I gesture at the punching bags.

“Hitting shit?” he asks.

“All of it. Arm bars, octagons. Why is this your dream job?”

“I like fighting,” he says with a quick wink before he tosses his gloves aside.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. The adrenaline rush? The way you have to learn how to read your opponent. Anticipate. The look on a dude’s face when he realizes I’ve got him, and there’s not a fucking thing he can do about it?”

Is that what I look like?

“Okay, but how did you know you liked that?” I ask. “Were you bullied or something?”

He huffs. “No. You’ve seen how much I like super hero movies. I was obsessed with Batman growing up. I wanted to get the bad guys. Make them pay.” His mouth quirks.

“Wait—you were the bully?”

He gives his scruff a rub. “I mean—I wouldn’t say that. I was more like the avenger. Keeping the real bullies in line.”

“You beat up kids who beat up other kids?” I ask.

He shrugs. “They were the only ones who deserved it.”

“Sam. That’s…” I don’t know what that is.

“Trouble,” he finishes for me. “I was trouble. I was kind of a moody kid.”

“And you’re not now?” I ask.

“I have an outlet now.” He scans me head to toe and back again. “Two actually.”

I blush. I hate to bring up Marcus right now, but there was one thing he said to me a few weeks ago I keep wondering about. “Was it pretty hard for you? When you got injured and you weren’t able to train? ”

He frowns at me, like he can hear the question behind the question. He nods once. “What’d my dad say?”

I jolt at the blunt call out. Am I that transparent? “I don’t remember his exact words. He implied you were having a hard time, I guess. He sounded worried.”

“Look,” he says. “I love my mom and dad, but they’ve never really gotten me. I get upset or shed a tear, and they think I’m gonna jump off a bridge or something.”

“But why would they think that?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I said a lot of outrageous shit when I didn’t get my way. I’m telling you—I was a tough kid.”

“So you’re not like—emotionally unstable,” I say, wanting him to agree.

“No,” he says convincingly. “Just misunderstood. There’s a difference between getting in trouble and getting into good trouble, you know?”

I nod and sort of shrug.

“But when I’d get suspended from school it was hard to explain to my parents that it was for a good cause.”

“Right,” I say, seeing him a little differently and liking this insider knowledge he’s giving me.

“I’m tougher than they think I am, but we all have our moments, right?”

“Of course,” I say, thinking of my London anxiety attack. “Everyone has a breaking point.”

He gestures to the mat behind me, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Let’s go find yours.”

My grin quirks. “Fine.” I unwrap my own hand coverings. When I look up at him again, I feel how plastered my hair is to my face. It’s hot in here. Are there no fans?

I toss my gloves where he threw his, and he gestures behind me to get moving. I head to the nearest mat, and he follows. “Shoes off,” he says in his bossiest voice .

I huff, kicking off my sneakers before I get on the mat. “Socks, too, angel kitten.”

“Don’t call me that right now. Call me Excalibur.”

He barks a laugh. “The fuck I will.”

I take off my socks and throw them at him. They fall about a foot short, but he, who’s been barefoot this whole time, charges me, making me go airborne in the tight cage of his arms before “slamming” me to the mat.

It’s noisy and has the full effect of making me feel like I’m on a roller coaster, but he’s really gentle about it. Then I don’t even know what happens. All of a sudden, he’s half underneath me and my arm is in severe danger of breaking. “Jesus fucking Christ!” I shout.

“Tap out?”

“You didn’t tell me how?”

“Safe word then.”

“Samuel!”

“Tap my skin anywhere three times.”

I flail around until I find his forearm and slap him once, hard.

He laughs, letting me go.

“That was terrifying!”

“That’s why it works. There are leg bars, too.”

“Have you ever broken someone’s arm?”

“No,” he says.

“But you could?”

He sits up on his elbows. “I don’t know. Someone my size? Depends how good of a hold I get, I guess.”

I crawl over him and straddle his lap, putting my hands on his wrists. “Guess you can get out of this hold pretty easy,” I tell him.

“I don’t know,” he says, his gaze raking over me. “I’d have to want to. ”

“I thought you were gonna teach me how to grapple.”

He lifts his hips beneath me, and I feel the head of his cock against my ass. “I don’t remember saying that.”

“You didn’t make me drive halfway across the city just to teach me two punches did you?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

He gives me a casual shrug. “Figured you were probably bored.”

“Uh-huh. Totally selfless act, huh?”

“Totally. But if you want me to submit you again…”

I tighten my hold on his wrists, putting all my weight into it before I bend down to give him a long, full kiss. Then I pull away and look into his slightly dazed eyes. “Dare you.”

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