1
Let Me Work Those Glutes
“Mr. Graves,” Bev calls, from the threshold of my office.
“Bev, please. It’s McCoy,” I reply. “It’s October. We’ve been working together for well over a month. I’d like to think we’ve moved past the formalities. I know I’m a jerk sometimes, but ‘Mr. Graves’ is my father.” I look up from my laptop, where I’ve been creating an agenda and memos for Monday’s parent council meeting.
“Okay, I’ll try: McCoy,” she nods, her lips pulling up into an awkward smile, her red hair in its usual bun.
“Much better. What can I do for you?”
“I’m going to head out for the evening if there isn’t anything else you need me to do? Anything that can’t wait ’til tomorrow?”
“Nope. I’m heading off to workout myself, after this,” I nod at my laptop, “so have a great night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“’Night, McCoy. See you tomorrow,” she calls.
I like it here, I think, leaning back in my swivel chair. The kids are well-behaved—for the most part, even though there are always those few who need reminders of proper school conduct. The staff is a cohesive unit who work well together and always appear to put the needs of the students first. It’s been a great transition, and I’d say I’m doing a decent job so far. The parents respect me, the students seem to, as well, and I haven’t ruffled too many of the staff’s feathers with the few changes I’ve implemented.
On top of work being good, being back in town has been, too. Hanging out with my brother, Rory, more and reconnecting with Keaton, Brody, and the rest of the guys was just what the doctor ordered. Being with Lola and moving away from Guelph was a move I’d needed to make at the time for my career, but it absolutely put a strain on my relationships back here at home. Thankfully, I’ve been able to slip right back in, almost as if no time had passed. The Hatfields have played a huge role in that. David, Katie, and Keaton have always had my back, and since I’ve returned home, they all still treat me like I’m part of their family. Which is great, because I absolutely consider them mine.
And then there’s Eastlyn. I’ve always had a soft spot for her over the years—friendship, a crush—but now? Now, I can’t stop thinking about her. Over the years, I’d held back, not wanting to admit what was so blatantly in front of me. I guess I’d been bogged down by the worry of potentially pissing Keaton off, or that David and Katie might think that I’d taken advantage of my close proximity to Eastlyn. But seeing her everyday now only drives home everything I’ve been missing out on. And I’m not quite sure if that pisses me off or excites me.
“Who are you fucking kidding?” I ask myself. I know the answer. Booting down my computer, I close my office door and change into my workout gear, trying in vain to push thoughts of Eastlyn out of my head. For now.
Heading down the hall towards the fitness room, I have to admit that working at a state-of-the-art school is a definite perk. My last school in Brockville, Meadowview, didn’t have greenhouses, an art studio, or a fitness room like Westwood does. It’s nice to be able to stay a little after school to work out my frustrations. I’ve even joined the 4 p.m. staff workouts led by Mrs. Robichaud, the French teacher, three nights a week. I’d had to miss today’s due to having to deal with some parent phone calls, not to mention a community complaint about an ongoing fight to get the city to paint an actual crosswalk behind the school—a fight I’ll gladly join, hence all of my research and having to add more notes than usual in preparation for Monday’s meeting.
Walking into the fitness centre, I’m caught off guard by the sound of Marianas Trench blasting off the walls. I thought everyone had gone home except for me and Mrs. Martinez, the night caretaker.
Imagine my surprise when my eyes land on a certain green-eyed beauty who’s finishing up on the leg curl machine. Hovering—not wanting to draw attention to myself just yet—I study her while she bends to drag a suede-covered floor balance beam into the open space in the circuit centre. Thankful for the view of her tight ass up in the air, bouncing in my direction as she works to lug the beam exactly where she wants it, I smile—and so does my cock, giving her a silent salute. Eastlyn Hatfield has the formula for the perfect ass: Shape + Roundness x Firmness + Bounce. Although I can’t yet confirm the exact feel of it, I have no qualms saying that it looks like pure perfection from where I stand. And my cock wholeheartedly agrees.
Goddamn, she is a sight.
Pushing off the doorframe, I decide I better announce myself before I get caught standing there, pants around my ankles, whacking off at the sight of her. “I didn’t know you worked out here,” I call over the music, my voice a bit of a croak. I work to clear it, and toss my towel and water bottle onto the ground beside her.
“Jesus, Coy, you scared me!” She looks up, her hand reflexively covering her chest.
“Sorry,” I chuckle, my eyes drifting down her lithe body. She looks so hot in her tight workout leggings and—I notice—my Pearl Jam shirt. That little klepto. “Nice shirt.”
My gaze holds hers. I’m trying really fucking hard not to lick my lips at the way she’s showing off her smooth stomach where she’s tied up the shirt at her hip, exposing just enough skin to make my dick twitch again.
“It might be my very favourite. I had to steal it,” she beams, with not one ounce of apology or regret.
“It is mine,” I retort (without adding “especially with you in it”, because I’m not sure she’s ready for that. Not just yet).
“So, come here often?” I ask, crossing my arms, my lips pulling up at the side. I notice how her eyes track the movement.
“Yes—er, no. Well, I’m trying…I need to. All the chocolate I’ve been eating the last few weeks is going straight to my ass,” she says, turning it towards me, displaying herself. She gives her buttock a firm smack. I laugh and she gasps, realizing she’s basically just given me permission to stare. “Don’t do it. Do not even think—and do not say it or bring it up, ever. I mean it. Forget it happened,” she scolds, and I haven’t even said a word. Not that it matters. I know exactly what she’s worried about. The determined look on her face causes me to tip my head back in deep laughter. This girl. She thinks her mentioning the chocolate I gave her in her gift basket along with referencing her bum in the same sentence will remind me of her being a Turdblossom. In fact, the only thing it does is make me think of what her ass would look like perched in the air while I impale her with my cock, over and over again.
Deciding not to tease her or share my dirty thoughts, I raise my hands in surrender. “To the surprise of perhaps us both, I wasn’t thinking of or going to say anything other than I’m happy you’re enjoying the chocolate, and I think your ass is just fine as it is,” I say, making sure I enunciate the word “fine” and keep my eyes on said ass.
“Uh-huh.” She eyes me skeptically. “I was very sick, you know.”
I laugh again. She’s adorable. “Truth is, Sprinkles, I wasn’t even thinking about it. And I know you were sick. I was there, remember?”
“How could I forget?” Her face flushes a hot red.
“I promise to never bring it up again,” I say, whipping up three fingers to show Scout’s honour. I give her a sly smile. “Although, now—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Ha, like they would’ve ever let you join their group. And, see? I knew it,” she points her finger at me, “you’re more like a Devil’s Brigade kind of guy rather than a Scout.” She giggles, and makes two waggling horns on either side of her head with her fingers.
“So, why didn’t you work out earlier with Martine Robichaud and the others?” I ask, trying to move the conversation along to prove I won’t bring up the Incident That Shall Not Be Named.
“It’s too close to an organized activity for me. We both know I don’t always play well with others; you’ve seen how klutzy I am. I try to keep that shit contained these days.”
“I couldn’t forget if I tried. Always the introvert and the girl with two very left feet. What are you doing with the beam?” I ask, gesturing down to the odd contraption she’s created by setting the balance beam on top of two wooden blocks at either end, raising the beam almost a foot off the ground.
“It’s for cardio. Kam and I jump over it. It’s an easy way to get the heart rate up.”
“Uh-huh.” I mock her earlier statement. It’s my turn to be skeptical.
“I’ll show you,” she sighs. “It’s perfect and feels good in the thighs and glutes.”
It’s official. She’s trying to kill me. I bite my tongue to prevent myself from volunteering to show her another type of exercise that’s good for her gluteus maximus and leg muscles. Instantly, images of her bent to my will has me hard, causing me to reach down and discretely adjust my ever-hardening dick as it stiffens, tightening my black shorts.
“Okay, show me.”
I watch as she starts to jump over the beam from side-to-side, planting her landings with both feet like she’s slalom skiing. I can see how doing this would get the heart pumping. It’s got mine beating faster just from watching—rather, staring at—her first three jumps alone. The way her tits are jiggling under my T-shirt is definitely giving me a rise. The words, “Fuck me,” escape with a grunt, whether I mean them to or not.
“What?” Her head snaps up. “What’s wrong?”
“Not a damn thing. I was thinking—”
Suddenly, she yelps and goes falling backwards, landing flat on her back. Her head hits the base of the leg press with a dull crack.
“East! Jesus, are you all right?” I rush to her side. She slowly sits up, her face a little pale, her hand rubbing the back of her head.
“Yeah, I’m okay, I think. I’m seeing a few stars, but nothing’s broken.” She smiles awkwardly, and tries to stand.
“Sit a minute.” I grab her arm gently. “Let me look at you.”
“I’m fine, Coy. See why I don’t do this shit in front of others? I know, I know. It’s my two left feet,” she says, imitating my deeper voice, and I chuckle.
“Or maybe it’s me and the effect I have on you, Sprinkles? Here you are, falling at my feet once again,” I wink.
“I dislike you immensely. You know this, right?” she scoffs. She relents, and sits back down on the carpet.
“Funny, I don’t think you do,” I say, before rubbing the back of her head and neck, checking for any cuts or goose eggs. Thankfully, I don’t feel any.
We spend the next thirty minutes talking while I make sure she doesn’t have a concussion. I make her answer questions on the mandatory concussion checklist and protocol form I grabbed from the Phys. Ed. office, since her injury happened on school property.
“You’re such a stickler for the rules, Graves. I’m fine,” she says, rolling her eyes for the umpteenth time.
“I’m the boss, so you must do as I say,” I remind her with a teasing smile.
She counters with a light jab to my stomach. “You aren’t the boss of me, remember? Oh, wait…”
This causes me to have to bite the inside of my cheek.
“Humour me, Sprinkles. I just want to make sure you’re all right,” I say, and she gives me a sweet smile and let’s me do my thing.
Boss or not, it was thirty minutes where I got to sit next to her taking in her sweet smile and intense eyes, and with a valid excuse to touch her. It made me wonder how the hell I could get more of this—and soon—without her having to sustain another injury.
It also made me question why the fuck it had taken me so long to get here.