The steady thump of my sneakers against the treadmill is almost enough to drown out the grunts and clangs of the crowded gym around me. I focus on keeping my breathing steady, in through the nose and out through the mouth, as sweat trickles down my spine.
I've never been much of a gym rat, but there's something satisfying about the burn of worked muscles and elevated heart rate. It makes me feel productive, accomplished even at this early hour. And hey, it certainly doesn't hurt to put a little extra effort into maintaining the physique.
Lord knows I'm punching above my weight class with Emma. I've lost count of the number of times a well-meaning buddy has elbowed me with a sly grin and an eyebrow waggle, crowing about how I "married up."
It used to irk me before but I've mellowed with time and the security of a rock-solid marriage. Now, I just smile and shrug, secure in the knowledge that at the end of the day, I'm the one Emma chose.
I'm just starting to work up a good sweat, endorphins buzzing pleasantly, when a flash of movement in the large gym mirror catches my eye. My feet stutter briefly on the treadmill, forcing me to grab for the handles and right myself.
I'd clocked Marcus when I first walked in, of course - kind of hard to miss him, even in a gym full of meatheads and fitness bunnies. He's just so massive, his bulk made even more impressive by the fact that it's packed with dense, rock-hard muscle. The man is a walking advertisement for superior genetics and a religious dedication to the iron.
But I've never seen him like THIS.
He's set up in the squat rack in the corner, a truly obscene amount of weight loaded onto the bar.
I watch as he executes perfect, deep squats. The display of raw power in his leg muscles is something else. It's just so impressive, the way his huge body moves with such controlled strength and grace.
How old is he, anyway? He has to be at least ten years my senior, maybe pushing forty. But it is tough to say for sure. His skin is smooth and taut, his frame corded with lean muscle without an ounce of excess flab.
Shaking my head at the direction of my thoughts, I resolutely turn my attention back to the calorie counter ticking away on my treadmill display.
The rest of my workout passes uneventfully, if not quite as quickly as I'd like. I dutifully make my way through the free weights and a few machines, trying to hit each muscle group with dedication.
I'm midway through a truly punishing set of hamstring curls when a large hand claps down on my shoulder out of nowhere. I jerk in surprise, almost losing my grip on the handles.
"Shit!"
"Sorry, man. Didn't mean to scare you."
"It's cool," I reply pushing sweat-damp hair back from my forehead.
He cocks a brow, a contemplative twist to his full lips as he eyes my posture. "Mmmhmm. Interesting form you got going on but it's not proper."
I blink, "How so? I mean, I know I'm not the most coordinated on this thing, but-"
"Here, lemme show you." Marcus steps around to my side, gesturing for me to resume my position on the bench. When I comply, he squats down to adjust my feet placement on the bar, his huge hands dwarfing mine as he demonstrates the proper grip.
"You want to focus on squeezing at the top of the movement," he explains. "Really engage those hammies, don't just rely on momentum. And make sure your back stays flat against the bench - no arching or you'll tweak something fierce."
"Huh," I mutter, trying to follow his instructions. I manage a few slow, controlled reps under his watchful eye, and immediately feel the difference. "Damn, okay yeah, I see what you mean. That's a way better burn."
As Marcus prepares to leave, he turns to me with a grin. "It's all about the little tweaks. You keep that up and your legs will be thanking you in no time."
I laugh, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Thanks, Superman. I'll keep that in mind. And hey, if I ever get too buff, don't come crying to me when I start stealing the spotlight."
Marcus chuckles, hefting his gym bag over his shoulder. "Dream on, buddy. It's gonna take more than a couple of hamstring curls to steal any thunder from this."
"Fair enough," I concede with a smile. "But seriously, thanks for the tips. I'll try not to snap myself in half."
"Please don't," he laughs heartily. "I don't want to have to explain to Emma how her husband broke in half trying to impress the big guys."
I give a mock salute. "Understood, Coach. I'll keep it safe. No hospital trips on your watch."
"Good man," he replies. "And hey, if you ever want to try lifting something heavier than your phone, let me know. I'm around."
"Will do," I call after him, already plotting my next gym session. "Take it easy, Hercules!"
His laughter echoes back as he disappears into the throng of gym-goers, leaving me smiling and newly motivated.
Keeping his pointers in mind, I power through the rest of my sets with renewed determination. By the time I'm staggering to the locker room, my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti and I've got a layer of sweat sufficient to fill a kiddie pool. But damn if it doesn't feel good like a clear mark of a job well done.
I strip down and hop in the shower, groaning in relief as the steaming spray beats down on my head and shoulders. I take my time lathering up, letting the heat soak into my tired muscles. By the time I'm toweling off and shrugging back into my business casual, I'm loose-limbed and humming with satisfaction.
I'm still riding the endorphin high when I stroll out into the main lobby, gym bag slung over my shoulder. To my surprise, I spot Marcus by the elevators, bent nearly double as he fiddles with the laces on one neon orange sneaker.
"Sup, Schwarzenegger!" I call jovially, making my over. "Fancy meeting you here, eh?"
He looks up with a smirk. "You're awfully cheerful for someone who was panting like a winded bull not twenty minutes ago."
"What can I say? I'm reborn," I quip, striking an exaggerated bow. "A little proper blood flow does wonders. I might have to officially adopt you for your magical fitness advice."
He laughs, straightening up. "Dream on. I've got a queue of fitness fanatics vying for that privilege. You need more than just a good workout to make the cut."
I feign a heavy sigh as we step into the elevator. "Shot down so quickly. You're a tough one to please, Marcus. It's brutal."
The doors slide shut and we begin our slow ascent, stopping at seemingly every other floor to let people in or out.
I'm just starting to zone out, lulled by the gentle sway and mechanical hum, when the elevator dings and in walks a sight to behold.
Well hello there.
She's a bombshell blonde in fire engine red dress, her golden hair scraped back in a messy knot atop her head. Her face is bare of makeup but still arrestingly lovely, all pouty lips and big doe eyes. And that body, Christ on a cracker... The high, tight swell of her ass, the truly mesmerizing bounce of her tits with each step, barely restrained by the straining cotton...
