Chapter 1

Feeling the delicious ache in his pectoral muscles, Brett Jackson finished his last rep with the free weights. He placed the bar back in its metal hooks, detached the weights, and took them back to their stand. A quick wipe of the bench with his towel removed the wet evidence of his workout. He took another large swallow of water from his sports bottle and rolled his head to relax his neck. He did a few stretches and headed over to the treadmills for his 20-minute cooldown.

Brett set the machine for a moderate run, adjusted the music on his headphones to a slower tempo, and started running. He let the sheer physicality of running overtake him: the feel of his long legs pumping back and forth, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the moistness of his skin, and the smell of his deodorant—sharp and foresty. Following the subtle shift in the treadmill’s speed, Brett began to slow down, until a couple of minutes later he was walking, then done.

He stood there on the machine for a moment, savoring the end of his routine. He took another drink of water and wiped his sweat off the treadmill’s handrails.

Brett did a quick review of his time at the gym. Today had been upper body—heavy on the chest, lighter on the arms and back. Tomorrow would be legs. The day after, he’d do just the opposite on the upper body, heavy on the back and arms, and light on the chest.

There was a tug on Brett’s arm, startling him out of his thoughts. He turned and noticed a handsome twenty-something blond looking up at him. Brett turned down his headphones, which allowed the sounds of the gym—clanging of weights, grunts of exertion, and the nondescript dance club music the gym liked to play—to filter in.

“Excuse me, but are you almost done?” the man asked, scratching his chest through his thin, tight T-shirt. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, except there aren’t any other treadmills open.”

Looking around, Brett noticed the gym was starting to fill up. Apparently, he’d gotten so absorbed in his running that he’d zoned out. “Yeah, I’m done. Sorry. It’s all yours.” Brett quickly stepped off the machine.

The kid treated him to a dazzling smile that stirred something in Brett. He then stepped onto the treadmill and started to adjust the pace and time.

As Brett moved away, he took a surreptitious glance at the young man’s pert-looking butt, appreciating the way it flared out from the small waist. He let his eyes linger on the delectable ass before scanning up the broad back. Brett could almost imagine wrapping himself around this Adonis, sinking his erection into that amazing body, one hand clutching the man’s waist while the other went around the toned chest, all the while moaning words of passion.

Brett’s eyes traveled further up. He jumped, heart pounding. The man was looking over his shoulder at Brett, smiling. With a wink, the blond turned back around and increased the speed of the machine.

Brett could feel his face heat with embarrassment. He turned and purposefully walked to the drinking fountain on the far wall—anything to remove himself from having been caught ogling.

As he made his way to the men’s locker room, Brett noticed the clock on the wall. Five fifteen, the beginning of the time when people got off work and started hitting the gym before heading home. Brett liked the earlier time; not only were there fewer people, resulting in easier access of the machines and benches, but there were more of the muscle boys that he enjoyed watching.

Not that he would ever do anything beyond long-distance ogling and fantasizing—obviously, as that fumbling situation with the blond Adonis demonstrated—his last boyfriend had screwed with his head too deeply and too thoroughly for anything approaching physical intimacy to be considered a viable option.

Bitterly, Brett realized it had been over a year since he’d been physical with another man. In the past, Brett would have flirted with the guy, asked for his number, or even have invited him out after the Adonis was finished at the gym. But now Brett felt clumsy, awkward, too insecure, too shut down. It had been too long and Brett didn’t know if he was any good at sex anymore. Maybe that asshole of an ex was right; maybe Brett was boring in bed. Maybe he should’ve been into water sports, like the ex wanted; Brett just couldn’t help gagging at the idea of urine or, for that matter, being spit on. He just didn’t get it. He loved dick, he loved ass, he loved kissing, hell, he loved men, but maybe that wasn’t enough.

Approaching his locker, Brett sighed. There were only a handful of men in the locker room, and two of them were positioned on either side of his locker. It always happened; there were dozens of empty lockers, yet somehow guys always ended up right next to him at the same time that he was there.

After the two had finished changing, Brett stepped in and unlocked his locker. He stripped off his sweaty clothes, dumping them in a plastic bag to take home, and slid into a pair of flip-flops. He grabbed his towel, tossed it over his shoulder, and headed for the showers. While the actual locker area had been sparsely populated, the showers and sauna were bustling with naked men.

As he waited for a shower stall to become free, Brett caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors that lined the walls. He took a moment to acknowledge to himself that he was okay looking. Having recently turned thirty-eight, he wasn’t as confident about his body…or his skills. He noticed less definition in his abdomen, not like a beer belly or anything, just…less definition. Although there was some meat around his belly, Brett hoped the lack of a six-pack was balanced out by his broad chest and muscled arms. His eyes traveled up to assess his face; it was okay. With a square jaw, high cheekbones, blue eyes, and wavy brown hair, he’d always thought himself kind of bland, but others insisted he looked manly and handsome. He’d never be a model or, looking at his moderately sized penis, a porn star, but he supposed he had nothing to be ashamed of. He still had great glutes and his legs were long and toned. So he had that going for him.

One of the shower curtains was pulled back and a muscleman stepped out, with a semi-hard, thick penis bobbing between his legs, and sauntered into the sauna. In rapid succession two other shower curtains were flung open and the occupants scurried into the sauna after the man. Brett chuckled to himself as he stepped into one of the recently vacated stalls and began soaping up.

In the past, Brett mused as he vigorously lathered up his hair with shampoo, he would’ve been one of those guys following the muscleman into the sauna, hoping to suck him off. He’d certainly engaged in his fair share of sex in the sauna. Hell, it had been his reward at the end of a hard workout—intense lifting, then intense playing.

For a moment, Brett wondered if he’d become like one of those Pavlovian dogs that salivated at the sound of a bell. Did he work out purely to justify having sex in the sauna? Did he equate the burn and ache of his muscles with the reward of sucking cock?

Before Colton, Brett knew he would’ve jumped at the chance to play with one of those hot-looking Chelsea Boys that were so plentiful in the neighborhood gym—the bulging muscles and smooth, tanned skin. They were almost always overly groomed, but somehow it was sexy—an almost too-perfect picture of the masculine ideal. It was what had initially attracted him to Colton: big arms, rippled abdomen, cocky grin, and blond-tipped spikes of hair.

Brett leaned back into the strong spray to rinse his hair and hopefully all thoughts of his ex. He pumped the lever for a small dollop of conditioner and rubbed it into his hair a little too harshly, as if he could scrub his brain clean of those memories.

Letting the conditioner soak in, Brett pushed the soap lever and got a generous amount. Liberally running his soapy hands all over his body, he began his usual routine of starting at the top and working his way down.

Unwelcomed, the thought pushed into his brain—the opposite of what Colton did with my body. The guy never made it past my ass, unless he was sticking his dick in my mouth. God, he loved to fuck.