“Oh fucking fuck, yes!”
Christine was grunting and squealing under Micky’s deep thrusting, each little noise ricocheting against the tile of the gym’s bathroom, echoing in the air around them, tangled with the rhythmic splashing of the shower spray.
“Shh,” he chided into her ear, hoisting her higher against the wall, until she was balanced on the toes of one foot, her right leg wrapped around his ass. The new angle was just right for her clit, and she laughed and then groaned louder. He chuckled with her but put a hand over her mouth as he bit her earlobe. “Sshh!” he whispered again. She drew his fingers into her mouth and sucked.
“Ah jesus,” he said into her throat, and thrust harder. She was pushing her hips against him now, grinding toward her climax with a hungry persistence, while her hands fisted desperately in his hair. Her leg left the ground and she used her whole weight, pivoting against his cock, to grind against him. Still she sucked hungrily at his fingers, her noises rising in pitch and cadence until, at a shattering moment, she broke in waves, grunting in peals like a siren.
Micky thrust harder and faster, coming as her spasms ebbed, trying to limit his noise to gasping and wet rhythmic slaps.
As the tension in their bodies lessened, Christine melted down him, easing her feet to the ground and kissing him, hot and deep.
“Baby, you’re amazing,” she said when she disengaged her mouth.
“You too, baby.” He kissed her with smack and withdrew himself gently, then pulled off the condom. “I gotta go trash this. Thanks sweetie.” He left her under the spray, wrapped his hips in a towel from the hook outside the shower stall, and tried to make his way discretely to the door. This was, after all, the women’s locker room.
“Nice work,” he heard from behind him, just as he put his hand on the door. He whipped his head around and saw Fran, fresh from her workout, sweaty and pink and smirking under her orange ponytail. “I should have guessed it was you in there. With the squeaker.”
Micky grinned. “Hey Fran. See you at dinner?”
He turned and left the locker room, tossing his condom in the trash barrel as he went.
Fran sat on the bench by her locker and schvitzed. She had had an intense run fueled by her anger and hurt, and now she sat and listened to her heart rate gradually returning to normal. And tried to remember to inhale. And pursed her lips against the threat of tears, against the growing certainty that love was not a thing that would happen for her. Against the urge to whisper the name of the man who had so decisively and conclusively broken her heart this morning. (Stupid little shit couldn’t remember her name, why should she bother with his?)
A tall, slim brunette drifted in from the showers, and Fran decided this must be the squeaker. She looked dazed enough to have just had her brains fucked out in a public shower by a man with the body of David. Also, she was studiously avoiding eye contact with Fran, but that wasn’t necessarily because she was worried she’d been overheard having sex. It happened all the time here to Fran. The skinny folks felt uncomfortable with the fat chick in their gym.
Well. She was here enough, you’d think they’d get used to her.
Quirking the corner of her mouth into a grin, she opened her locker and pulled out her phone to check her calendar Three clients this morning, and then a free afternoon before dinner with Mick. She could wait to cry about Charles until this afternoon. Yep. Big girls do cry, they just wait until a convenient time.
Three clients. Three workouts. Three opportunities for success and fulfillment.
Then she could go home and cry.