Jack’s, his long, tapered fingers and smooth palm creating a warm and cozy cocoon I had no desire to escape. So, while I should have pulled my hand from his, I didn’t.
Instead, I let him guide me forward as he said, “I’m interested in hearing your take on the club. We have a number of female athletes who train here, don’t get me wrong. But I’d like to see more of them. My fear is,” he told me in an earnest tone, “they’re intimidated by the male clientele. All that testosterone, you know?”
Precisely what I’d first thought when I’d walked in. “I see your point.”
He led me through the lobby, past the juice bar and down a long corridor. He walked along at an angle so he could look at me as we talked. My hand was still nestled in his, though that angle had become an accommodating one too. I felt as though I was a delicate debutant on her first courtyard stroll with a dashing suitor.
Jack’s grin never wavered as he chatted me up. He said, “Along this wing are the racquetball courts.”
Six of them lined the hallway, elegantly designed with a glass viewing wall that revealed each court was booked with players, even though it was the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. We took a flight of curving stairs up to the mezzanine, where the free weights and machines were neatly organized and in high demand.
“Oh wow,” I whispered, blown away by all the famous faces.
My low voice caused Jack to move in close to hear me. I got a whiff of male heat mixed with the lingering scent of whatever expensive-smelling cologne he wore. My nipples instantly tightened as that spark I’d felt earlier turned into full-blown fireworks deep in my cunt. My body practically vibrated with sexual awareness and it was damn difficult to concentrate on anything other than the pyrotechnics happening down there .
To Jack, I said, “I can’t believe the astounding who’s who in this place. There’s more money walking around here than there’s gold at Ft. Knox.”
He chuckled, low and deep. An addictive sound. “It wasn’t easy building the reputation I needed to reel them all in. But I always dreamed of opening a club with state-of-the-art equipment and some of the best trainers in the world.”
“You had a phenomenal foundation to build upon,” I commented. “Ten years after the first version hit the market, the ProAth Bodybuilder is still the number one, bestselling at-home exercise machine.”
He laughed a little heartier this time at my infomercial-type recital. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Of course.” I also knew he was twenty-eight and single. Never married, never even engaged.
Jack, I’d discovered through my research, had designed the ProAth Bodybuilder in his parents’ garage when he was just seventeen, with the guidance of his father, who was a mechanic. I’d read in an interview he’d given Muscle magazine the year the workout machine launched that he knew exactly what he wanted from an all-in-one system and had spent every spare minute he had perfecting his so users would get the desired physical results in less time than with popular machines already on the market.
It’d been a cocky claim and one of those “yeah right” marketing strategies, according to the writer who’d interviewed Jack. But the clever young entrepreneur had offered the writer a ProAth machine of his own, and a follow-up article had proclaimed Jack Reed a genius personal trainer and fitness innovator three months later. The rave review of the equipment, along with several other notable mentions around the same time, had helped to blow the lid off Jack’s sales projections, and he’d made his first million the year he unveiled the exercise machine.
He’d continued to improve upon the design, and his substantial profit margin confirmed he knew what he was doing when it came to fitness.
I was certainly impressed with his ingenuity and the outcome of his dedication to staying in shape.
Sparing a glance
Instead, I let him guide me forward as he said, “I’m interested in hearing your take on the club. We have a number of female athletes who train here, don’t get me wrong. But I’d like to see more of them. My fear is,” he told me in an earnest tone, “they’re intimidated by the male clientele. All that testosterone, you know?”
Precisely what I’d first thought when I’d walked in. “I see your point.”
He led me through the lobby, past the juice bar and down a long corridor. He walked along at an angle so he could look at me as we talked. My hand was still nestled in his, though that angle had become an accommodating one too. I felt as though I was a delicate debutant on her first courtyard stroll with a dashing suitor.
Jack’s grin never wavered as he chatted me up. He said, “Along this wing are the racquetball courts.”
Six of them lined the hallway, elegantly designed with a glass viewing wall that revealed each court was booked with players, even though it was the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. We took a flight of curving stairs up to the mezzanine, where the free weights and machines were neatly organized and in high demand.
“Oh wow,” I whispered, blown away by all the famous faces.
My low voice caused Jack to move in close to hear me. I got a whiff of male heat mixed with the lingering scent of whatever expensive-smelling cologne he wore. My nipples instantly tightened as that spark I’d felt earlier turned into full-blown fireworks deep in my cunt. My body practically vibrated with sexual awareness and it was damn difficult to concentrate on anything other than the pyrotechnics happening down there .
To Jack, I said, “I can’t believe the astounding who’s who in this place. There’s more money walking around here than there’s gold at Ft. Knox.”
He chuckled, low and deep. An addictive sound. “It wasn’t easy building the reputation I needed to reel them all in. But I always dreamed of opening a club with state-of-the-art equipment and some of the best trainers in the world.”
“You had a phenomenal foundation to build upon,” I commented. “Ten years after the first version hit the market, the ProAth Bodybuilder is still the number one, bestselling at-home exercise machine.”
He laughed a little heartier this time at my infomercial-type recital. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Of course.” I also knew he was twenty-eight and single. Never married, never even engaged.
Jack, I’d discovered through my research, had designed the ProAth Bodybuilder in his parents’ garage when he was just seventeen, with the guidance of his father, who was a mechanic. I’d read in an interview he’d given Muscle magazine the year the workout machine launched that he knew exactly what he wanted from an all-in-one system and had spent every spare minute he had perfecting his so users would get the desired physical results in less time than with popular machines already on the market.
It’d been a cocky claim and one of those “yeah right” marketing strategies, according to the writer who’d interviewed Jack. But the clever young entrepreneur had offered the writer a ProAth machine of his own, and a follow-up article had proclaimed Jack Reed a genius personal trainer and fitness innovator three months later. The rave review of the equipment, along with several other notable mentions around the same time, had helped to blow the lid off Jack’s sales projections, and he’d made his first million the year he unveiled the exercise machine.
He’d continued to improve upon the design, and his substantial profit margin confirmed he knew what he was doing when it came to fitness.
I was certainly impressed with his ingenuity and the outcome of his dedication to staying in shape.
Sparing a glance
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