Pt. 02 - Dressed and Denied

Mia wakes, the sheets tangled around her like chains. The morning light feels bright, almost accusing. She pulls the sheets over her head, trying to hide from the day, from the memories.

Ethan's soft touch as he covered her breasts, her stark arousal at being seen and wanted.

Last night, alone with her thoughts, Mia allowed herself to relive the scene that Jace had cut short. In her fantasy, Tai and Treyvon had removed her thong, their hands and mouths expertly caressing and kissing as they brought her to a peak of intense pleasure. Only after her release, when the pleasure faded, did the embarrassment settle in, heavy and unshakable.

Mia's phone buzzes on her night stand. She reaches for it, tapping against the brightness of the screen.

Ryan: New uniform coming in later today. Hoping you can come in early for a talk.

Mia's arms stiffen, the implications washing over her in a wave of shame.

NO! Just NO!

Not at her work..

She burrows deeper under the covers, her mind racing. Maybe she could face Ryan again. He hadn't been there to see her stretched and teased by two football players. She could explain Ethan's encounter, maybe maintain some semblance of professionalism.

But Jace? The thought of facing him sends a shiver of dread through her.

She considers the gym's struggles and the looming presence of Verafit across the street. Ryan has poured everything into

Pinnacle.

He must be looking for a way out, a reset. Perhaps her leaving could somehow ease that transition. He has been so good to her. The least she could do is save him the cost of her salary while his business fails.

And yet... leaving Ryan wasn't easy. He wasn't just her boss; he was the one steady thing in her life, a connection built through years of trust, through the kind of understanding that didn't need words. When her marriage fell apart, he had been there--not to fix, not to pry, just there. It had never been complicated because it had never been an option. She had been married. Their relationship was professional. But that never stopped her from feeling.

The thought solidifies her resolve. It's the only way. She can't be the reason

Pinnacle

falls deeper into jeopardy.

From her closet, she searches for the right outfit. She passes over skimpy dresses, lace teddies, even the harness lingerie she had bought to get a rise out of him. Reminders of how she once dressed for a man who never wanted her. How she tried, again and again, to be seen by Michael.

Not this time.

This time, she needs to be strong, untempting, professional.

She retrieves her stiffest button-up, its high collar and thick fabric unyielding against her skin. Beneath it, her strapless structured minimizer bra flattens her shape. Over her panties, high-waisted compression tights smooth everything into place. Finally, she dons a long, structured pencil skirt, cinched at the waist, tightening past her knees, locking her in.

She eyes herself in the mirror. Serious. Concealed. In control. A uniform of withdrawal.

Staring at her reflection, she practices the words she'll say to Ryan. No more blurred boundaries. No more enticements. Today, she'll resign.

Mia steps into

Pinnacle Fitness

, rehearsed and ready. She's played the conversation over in her head, every word, every justification.

She finds Ryan in his office, standing over the marketing plan on his desk, looking bright. Happy. He hasn't looked this good in months.

But before she can even clear her throat, Ryan looks up--his face lighting up the second he sees her, like she's the best thing he's seen all week.

"You killed it, Mia." His grin is wide, his energy electric.

She blinks. "What?"

Ryan gestures toward the desk, beaming. "Here, sit."

Mia hesitates. She's not here to get comfortable. Avoiding the chestnut leather club chairs for guests, she steps in, leaning her butt against the edge of his desk instead.

Ryan doesn't seem to notice the difference--or if he does, he doesn't care. He's already moving on, already reaching for something on his desk. From his desk drawer, he retrieves a piece of paper, placing it in her hand.

Mia looks down. A check in her name. A commission.

He lets the moment hang before adding, "Treyvon and Tai signed up for the VIP membership this morning." He's beaming. "Jace said you were very convincing."

Mia swallows. How much does he know?

The check sits in her hand, undeniable. Company policy. Standard commission. But it doesn't feel standard. Ryan's approval lingers in the unspoken space between them. A reward for being unforgettable. Not just to them--to him. Why does that stir something in her?

Ryan watches her carefully, amusement flickering behind his eyes.

"Apparently, you made quite the impression."

The way his praise lingers, just ambiguous enough, sends a wave of heat through her. She shifts, suddenly aware of herself, of yesterday, of how much she gave to the gym and how good it felt. Maybe too good.

Her mouth is dry. She needs to move forward. "Ryan, I need to talk to you."

He exhales, shaking his head, like he already knows what's coming. "Mia--"

"I can't stay." She steels herself. "I crossed a line."

Ryan snorts. "Because Ethan caught a look? Mia, it was a wardrobe malfunction." His tone is breezy, dismissive.

She stiffens. "It wasn't just Ethan."

Ryan's gaze sharpens.

Mia swears his eyes flick just slightly downward--too quick to be sure.

And then, he sighs. "This is on me." He rubs a hand over his jaw. "You should've had your uniform. That shouldn't have happened."

A beat. His expression is unreadable. Then, he smirks. "I'm just confused--when you left, it was like you were glowing."

The air stutters in her throat. He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. Mia's face burns. Did he know?

Ryan pushes forward. "Your marketing plan was brilliant." He claps his hands together, "And we're moving on it."

Mia straightens. "What?"

"I've brought in a designer--friend of Kyle's--to create new uniforms and outfit you for the photoshoot you've suggested."

Yesterday's flutter returns to her stomach.

"A fitting?"

Ryan nods, already moving past it, like it's settled. "Lafayette will be here any minute."

No.

"I--" She swallows, shakes her head. "Ryan, I'm not ready for that."

Ryan leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "It's just measurements, Mia."

Just measurements. Like it's nothing. like she didn't wake up swearing she'd take back control. Like the idea isn't also secretly exhilarating.

Her heartbeat quickens, "I can't be measured in this."

Ryan's gaze flicks down--her stiff button-up, the high-waisted pencil skirt hugging her hips, the compression tights smoothing everything beneath. It dawns on him. She will need to strip down to be measured.

"Ahhhhh..." His voice is almost amused.

Mia stiffens, suddenly aware of how tightly her clothes grip her body. "I don't even know this guy."

A reassuring twinkle catches in his gaze. "You have nothing to worry about with Lafayette."

Right...Lafayette isn't interested in her.

Mia exhales, but the tension in her chest doesn't fully ease. Ryan's steady and certain voice has guided her through so much. It should ground her now, just like always. So why does it feel different this time? Why does she want to believe him so badly?

Lafayette struts ahead, waving Mia to the locker room like they're old friends heading into an exclusive VIP lounge. "Come, come--let's get you out of this nonsense."

Dressed like he stepped out of a fashion editorial, Lafayette wears a cropped pastel bomber over a fitted mesh tank, high-waisted lavender joggers hugging his frame just right, and spotless white sneakers clearly chosen to make the whole look feel intentional. His dark skin glows under the locker room lights, confidence radiating from every movement.

Mia huffs a small laugh, letting the door swing shut behind her. It's impossible not to follow his energy--like the main character in a movie no one else has been cast in yet. Mia likes him already.

He spins on his heel, eyeing her outfit like it personally offended him. "Honestly, this is a crime. Compression tights? A button-up? Baby, what are we doing here? Running a hedge fund?" He gestures at her stiff, constraining layers like they've personally wronged him. "And worse--you're hiding your true form. A body like yours?"

Mia rolls her eyes, but she's already smiling. "I was dressing for professionalism."

"You were dressing to keep that mess of a man out of your head." Lafayette waves a hand dismissively, like her ex-husband isn't even worth a full gesture. "Michael, was it? The one with the sexual charisma of a damp napkin?"

Mia snorts, shaking her head. "I never said that."

Lafayette grins, unbothered. "Ryan did." He arches a brow. "And baby, I can tell when a man is holding back."

Mia exhales a laugh, warmth creeping up her neck. Of course Ryan would say that.

Lafayette steps closer, voice dropping into something thoughtful, like he's considering a great mystery of the universe. "You ever think about how weird it is--closet cases?"

Mia blinks at the shift. "Closet cases?"

He nods, solemn. "Gay men hiding in this day and age. Like, honey, why? It is easier than ever to get your dick sucked."

Mia lets out a startled laugh. "I--Jesus Laf."

She has brooded over it a thousand times but somehow, it just feels good coming from a guy like Lafayette.

"I'm just saying!" He spins her toward the benches like he's steering a shopping cart, voice all casual charm. "Like, in a world full of options, why choose misery?"

Mia scoffs, shaking her head. "Maybe it's not that simple."

"Oh, it is. It so is." He winks, already reaching for the first button of her shirt. "Now, arms up, baby. Let's get you looking like someone who deserves admiration."

Still standing, Mia doesn't hesitate.

Lafayette is used to this.

"You ever worked runway?" he muses, slipping the first few buttons free.

Mia shakes her head, exhaling as he peels the fabric from her shoulders. Her long black hair tumbles down her back, a dark contrast against her pale skin. Lafayette is used to this.

"Well, listen and learn, sweetheart. I used to do backstage changes--ball gown to bikini in under sixty seconds. No time for modesty, no time for hesitation. Clothes on, clothes off. Clean, efficient, fabulous."

She tells herself it's the same here. But the way he's seeing her--not just as a body, not just as something to admire--it's intoxicating.

Lafayette slides her shirt down her arms, letting it catch at her wrists still buttoned tightly in the cuffs. Mia shifts instinctively, but the fabric stays tangled, a loose restraint. He pauses, taking her in--head tilting, lips pursing, like a sculptor assessing raw marble.

"Do you even understand what I could do with this body? With you?"

Mia exhales a short laugh, shifting her wrists against the bunched fabric. "I don't know--should I be flattered or worried?" Strangely, she feels safe with Lafayette.

"Sweetheart, you're a designer's dream- a perfect canvas, just waiting."

His fingers skim up her back, not teasing--just moving with purpose. The clasp of her strapless bra unfastens in one smooth motion.

Lafayette expertly reaches under her arms and behind her back, his fingers finding the clasp of her strapless bra, ease--one swift motion, and the fabric gives.

A beat of hesitation. A rush of cool air over her skin. She's half a second from crossing her arms over her chest when he moves back in front of her--hands up, palms open, waiting.

He isn't touching her. He's waiting. And that's worse.

Because Lafayette is looking at her like he's just been given VIP access to something divine.

He gasps, pressing a hand to his forehead like he needs to steady himself.

Then, "Oh. My. God," as if personally stricken. Mia barely has time to react before he cups his own face in delight. "Sweetie, I should sue you for keeping these from the world."

Heat rises up her neck, her breath caught in her throat.

"Absolutely magnificent." He steps back like he needs a full view, hands framing the air as if admiring a work of art. "I mean, symmetry? Perfect. Shape? Heavenly. Bounce?" He scoffs. "Newton would weep."

Mia presses her lips together, flustered, exposed.

He tilts his head, considering something. And then, softly, like a great realization--

"You must let me touch."

A nervous flutter stirs in her chest, unsure how to respond.

He waggles his fingers, eyes wide with anticipation. "Darling--these deserve admiration in real time."

A laugh bubbles up before she can stop it, a little nod. God, he's ridiculous. Charming. Effortless. And completely safe--even as something familiar stirs inside her

So when he extends his hands, waiting, she lets him.

His palms graze the curve of her breasts, light at first--just fingertips skimming, tracing the soft slope. His thumbs press in gently, testing their weight.

Her fingers tense against the bunched fabric at her wrists, a useless little flinch. She wonders if she could free herself if she wanted, but instead she savors the moment, letting herself slip into the part of her that wants to be Lafayette's artwork.

He hums approvingly, adjusting his grip, lifting slightly before letting them settle. "Oh, sweetheart." He closes his eyes like he's found religion. "The luxury. The perfection."

His hands are warm, his touch light, expert. Nothing sexual. Nothing sexual. But her body doesn't care. It just reacts.

And then--his thumb grazes over her nipple. Light. Effortless. The kind of touch that shouldn't mean anything.

Except it does.

Mia tenses, her stomach pulling tight. She wasn't ready for the spark that would send through her.

The warmth of his palm is already everywhere, his hold assessing, shaping, appreciating--but that single, fleeting stroke sends a bolt of sensation straight between her legs.

Lafayette's hands still. Then, slowly, like a man piecing together a delightful secret, his smirk deepens.

Mia freezes. Oh God--he knows.

His thumb circles back, just barely--not enough to be deliberate, but enough to test.

Her body reacts before she can stop it. A slow, betraying stiffening beneath his touch.

Lafayette gasps dramatically, grinning. "Oh, honey... sensitive, are we?"

Mia burns. Every inch of her. She told herself this was safe. That he was safe. But there's nothing safe about this. He's touching her with ease, confidence and charm, and yet--her body wants. She should step back. She should stop this. Instead, she stays perfectly still, letting herself have it.

And Lafayette? Lafayette smiles. His thumbs drag over her nipples one last time, slow and deliberate, before he finally pulls away.

Mia exhales, her chest tight, skin flushed, her body still humming from his touch.

And then--she sees it. The shift in his stance. The way he subtly adjusts himself. The realization crashes over her--sudden, dizzying, and undeniably hot.

Lafayette isn't gay.

He's been touching her--freely, easily--like it meant nothing. But it does.

It's not just the way he touches her. It's the way he takes her in--like he's savoring something rare, something too exquisite to rush. A quiet thrill surges beneath her skin. Because he's enjoying this.

Lafayette's gaze meets hers. He doesn't explain. He just smiles--slow, knowing, like a man who's exactly where he wants to be.

"Let's get you measured, baby."

His hands slip beneath her arms, past the sleeves still locking her wrists. The tape follows, gliding under his fingers as he smooths it around her ribs--each touch light but reverent. Like he's shaping something exquisite, something rare. "You are--" he exhales, as if no single word is enough.

Mia shivers. He notices.

The tape measure drags over her nipples, and her body responds--Lafayette's grip careful, deliberate. More than measurement. Appreciation. A slow, uninvited pulse stirs between her legs.

Lafayette clicks his tongue.

"Oh, sweetheart." A soft sigh, like he's savoring something. "Perfection. And I mean that."

His voice is lower now, smooth. It shouldn't make her stomach flutter like this. But it does. Mia tries to steady herself, but then he's stepping back, hands already at her waist.

"Skirt next."

He unhooks it before she can react, fingers slipping beneath the waistband, peeling it down like it belongs to him.

A sharp intake of air, thighs tensing. Her hands twitch behind her back, a reflexive motion--useless.

Lafayette just laughs softly. "Relax, baby. I'm doing all the work here."

He glides the gray fabric down her thighs, over her knees, then releases, letting it softly pool around her steel-blue kitten heels. But instead of rising, he pauses, eyeing the fabric bunched at her ankles with a look of theatrical dismay.

"Ugh, sweetheart, this is chaos. I can't work like this."

Before she can ask what he means, he has already moved, stepping behind her. His hands are at her lower back, twisting the bundled-up shirt into a firm knot. A click--he pins it in place with a safety pin from his kit.

Mia flexes her fingers instinctively. Oh.

The knot isn't elaborate, but it holds. She can still wiggle her arms, but not past her hips. A deep, spreading awareness--of exposure, of helplessness, of how every inch of her skin feels more alive without the option to shield herself. The restraint alters her posture, subtly lifting her breasts, making them feel fuller, more present. She is tied, yet somehow, the restriction frees her--to feel, to surrender to each sensation without escape.

Lafayette pats the secured knot with satisfaction. "There. Now we can focus."

Effortlessly, he moves back in front of her, dropping to a knee. His hands are at her waist in an instant, slipping the tape measure around her with practiced ease. He cinches it snug, then--he frowns, lips pursed in open disapproval.

"Oh, absolutely not."

Mia blinks. "What?"

Still crouched at her waist, he plucks at the waistband of her tights with two fingers, like he's afraid of catching something contagious. "Compression? At this level? Who hurt you?"

Mia rolls her eyes. "They smooth everything out."

"Sweetheart, your body does not need smoothing. It needs adoring."

Mia shifts instinctively, trying to lift her hands to make it easier--but the knot holds firm. She can't help. She can't assist. She can only stand there, still and yielding, as Lafayette hooks his fingers into the waistband, peeling the tights over her hips, down her thighs in one smooth, practiced motion. Then slowing his pace, he works the tights lower, unwrapping her inch by inch, only to leave them tangled at her ankles, the stretched fabric binding her feet together.

Before she can adjust, he reaches around her, both hands sliding up the backs of her thighs--firm, steady.

Mia shivers, instinctively shifting her legs, but the compression tights cinched at her ankles make it little more than a useless quiver.

His palms spread wide, gliding up to the soft curves just beneath her ass.

Then, with a satisfied sigh--

"There we go. You're officially free from this oppression."

Mia's legs feel unsteady--not just from the tights binding her ankles, but from the way her body feels weaker, more aware of itself.

Mia's knees threaten to buckle, Lafayette's hands rising further, teasing against the thin lace strap that disappears between her cheeks. And now, he's closer--eye-level with the delicate lace stretched over her heat. Her wrists flex behind her, instinctive, useless. She's trapped in place, fully at Lafayette's mercy as his breath brushes the inside of her thigh, the restraint keeping her still even as her body tenses.

Lafayette slides his tape between her thighs, knuckles brushing the sensitive skin at her inner leg.