Sweat

After my brutal workout, all I want is to rip off this soaked gear and hit the shower. Instead, there’s that guy who’s always the last one in the gym—broad shoulders, cheeky grin, still wiping down a bench—blocking my exit. “Looks like you could use a hand stripping,” he says, leaning against the lockers like it’s the best offer I’ve had all week. And honestly? It isn’t a bad idea. I let him tug the tank top over my head, peel my leggings down, and hook two fingers behind the waistband of my soaked briefs before sliding those off too. He doesn’t rush. He kneads my quads, traces the line of each calf, then peels the sweaty socks free so he can press his thumbs into my arches and kiss each toe like they’re the main event. I’m standing naked in the middle of the locker room while he kneels in front of me, big hands mapping every muscle he just helped uncover. The steam from the showers is starting to fog the mirror, but I still catch his smirk in the reflection. My shower can wait; tonight, apparently, so can I.