Olivia

“I hate you,” I seethe as beads of sweat trickle down my forehead, the salty fluid stinging my eyes. A few drop onto the gym mat as I push up to stand, completing what feels like my millionth burpee.

Jonah chuckles, playfully tapping the sole of my right runner with the tip of his shoe. Now in my final rep, down in plank position, I prepare to do yet another push-up. His nudge only serves to grate on my nerves, which is most definitely his intent.

In a singsong tone, he replies, “Stop being a cry baby and give ‘em to me, darlin’.” His apparent amusement at my distress only pisses me off more. “Keep your elbows tight to your body,” he directs in his back-to-business tone.

A snarl slips from my parched lips. “Seriously, I fucking hate you,” I say as I pant, collapsing into a puddle of mush. My body is a mass of overworked, inoperable muscles. With my face planted in the sticky, smelly vinyl mat—gross—I’m unable to move, even if I wanted to.

“My, my, you’re a catty one today, swearing and all. Liv, cut the sass. We’re almost done,” he says light-heartedly in his southern twang. My disgruntled nature during a workout is nothing new to him. In fact, if I were anything but, he’d be surprised.

Placing my water bottle on the floor beside my lifeless body, he chuckles again as I longingly gaze at the appealing clear liquid. The thought of the cool water coating my dry lips and tongue, sliding down my scratchy throat is practically orgasmic. If only I could pick the damn thing up. Though a seemingly simple task, lifting my arms right now is like raising the Titanic—insurmountable. I can’t wrap my head around the command. Nothing, body or mind, works. I’m wiped.

“I don’t suppose you’d help me with the water?” I ask, my voice sickeningly sweet. “Like, say, lifting my head and pouring it down my throat?”

“Would you like me to swallow for you too?” he deadpans, one eyebrow raised, hands on his lean hips.

“No, I think I could handle that part,” I sarcastically quip with a slight grin. I manage to raise my head a few inches off the floor and smile weakly at my torturer.

His blue eyes twinkle at the hilarity of my exhaustion. He’s seen me at my worst, my current incapacitation is nothing. Focusing on his outstretched hand, like a mirage in the blistering desert, I find a way to thrust my aching, protesting body into a sitting position. Lifting my hand, I gesture for him to bring his to mine. I’ve already overdone it. His beautifully sculpted arms bunch and flex as he effortlessly pulls me into standing. I almost cave, forgetting to be mad, and praise him for the assist.

“You’re a tyrant,” I grumble instead, belying my gratitude. Every muscle—including many I never knew existed—screams in agony. I’m going to be sore tomorrow, and probably more so the next day. The thought has me groaning in dread. I’ll be back in his torture chamber in less than forty-eight hours.

What the hell am I doing to myself? Oh, yeah, I’m getting fit and healthy, putting myself first for once in my life. I got myself into this mess, and now I’m paying for it. I’m intent on cleaning up my body, mind, and spirit.

Okay, I didn’t do it all by myself, but I was certainly a participant in my downward spiral, though a reluctant and unwitting one. I did the unthinkable and equated my worth to the actions of another—a man, no less. I shudder at the thought, at my stupidity. In my defense, I was in love. I was entrenched in a long-term relationship and had a family to think about. Nevertheless, the fact of the matter is, I lost sight of me. I stopped caring about my appearance, my health, my life, and my dreams.

Shit, how did I end up down the rabbit hole of negative thoughts so fast? Oh yes, Jonah—I blame him. Wanting to inflict as much pain as I’m physically drowning in at this moment, I set my sights on him. What better person to direct my wrath at than the one who put me here?

“I believe you meant trainer, not tyrant. Come on, I’ll give you a quick rub down. You better have a nice, long, hot-as-you-can-take-it bath with Epsom salts tonight. You were great today. You gave it your all, and you’ll be feeling it,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Nope, tyrant fits better. And yes, I’m well aware I’ll be in hell tonight and definitely tomorrow, thanks to you.” I lightly swat his rock-hard bicep and delicately walk toward the massage table. This is the best part of my daily dose of exercise.

Jonah Carson isn’t cheap, but he’s highly recommended as the go-to personal trainer to reshape your mind and body. With a waiting list as long as my arm, I was fortunate to jump to the front of the line because of a referral from one of his longest and dearest clients, my best friend Tamsin.

At first, I hemmed and hawed about hiring him. He was expensive, way more than some of the other trainers I interviewed, and I needed to be frugal with my money. I was no longer a stay-at-home mom with a husband as the sole breadwinner. I had a new life and a new business. Still, with my life upended and my whole focus on getting back on track, my health was important.

I am worth it.

Then I met Jonah and all my reservations flew out the window. Twelve years my junior, this sweet and sexy man from Nashville was mesmerizing. I was a goner, and not in a sexual way. If I was going to have a personal trainer, I wanted him. His body was a work of art. While I’m not going for perfection, I certainly wouldn’t mind firm, defined muscles like his, and fewer bumps and bulges.

I fell hook, line, and sinker once we started talking. We clicked instantly. I saw in him someone who would push me to be my best, yet also understood that I was vulnerable. I had a ton of work ahead of me, and shedding forty pounds would be the easy part; I also had all my negative talk and baggage to eliminate. I was rebuilding my confidence and rediscovering me.

It was the way he spoke to me that drew me in. The way his eyes and tone softened as he asked me why I wanted to lose the weight, I could tell his meaning was deeper. He wanted to know my reasons beyond changing my physical appearance. I knew he would know when to be hard on me and when to go soft. On Jonah’s part, as he’s said many times since, he recognized in me the determination and sarcastic sass ingrained in him. He often comments that I’m the sister he never had.

So together with my lawyer, we worked the expense into my alimony. Truthfully, my ex-husband, Pete, didn’t begrudge me anything in the divorce. In fact, he would have given me everything if I’d asked. I think he figured—or wished—if he gave me what I wanted, I’d stay.

Strong hands deftly work the backs of my thighs and calves, kneading and massaging my tight, sore muscles. My moans are slow, lingering, and uncontrollable. By now, Jonah’s unfazed by my inappropriate sounds. At first, when we’d started this exciting love-hate relationship…okay, there isn’t any hate; you simply can’t hate Jonah—although there are moments almost daily where I plot his death as he tirelessly works me to the bone. Even with all of that, his intent comes from a loving place.

Where was I? Oh yeah, back to my moans. The first few times he administered his massage, he shamelessly snickered at my noises to the point of tears streaming down his rugged face. Between his fits of laughter, he stated that I was like a porno soundtrack; “one horny vixen” was how he put it. In the beginning, I was uncomfortable and embarrassed. Try as I might, it is hard to control my vocal enthusiasm for his magical hands—and yes, I know that sounds all kinds of wrong.

Yes, surprise, surprise, I’m not silent during sex either. I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve spent years trying to perfect silent sex, but I’ve failed miserably. Unless there’s something stuffed in my mouth—get your mind out of the gutter—I whimper and scream as I orgasm.

I’d like to think Pete enjoyed my verbal satisfaction when we were married. Truth be told, I have no clue—he never said a word either way. In fact, when we had sex, he was mute. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think you need to be vocal during sex or that being silent is a no-no; it’s not about that. It’s that I never knew if my pleasure or oral encouragement turned him on or bothered him. I never knew what he felt or what he was thinking at any given moment in time, and that was the crux of it, the downfall of our twenty years of marriage. I never knew.