I ‘forgot’ to lock the club, and he didn’t lock the shower door for me.

My name is Lara Becker. Twenty-nine. Personal trainer by day, adrenaline junkie by night. I’ve been sculpting bodies for six years, but mine is the one that still keeps me up—tall, lean, tattoos curling over my ribs, short platinum hair that never stays tame after a workout.

The club closes at 11 p.m. sharp. Members know the rules. Except tonight, I “forgot” to set the alarm on the main entrance.

His name was Viktor Stahl. New client. Thirty-four. Former boxer. Shoulders that could block out the sun, hands scarred from years of wraps and gloves. He booked the last slot every Tuesday and Thursday for the past month. He never flirted. Never lingered. But every time he finished his deadlifts, he’d catch my eye in the mirror, hold it just long enough to make my pulse stutter, then look away.

Tonight he stayed late. I was wiping down equipment when I heard the showers running. I should have left. Instead I walked toward the sound.

The men’s locker room was empty except for him. Steam rolled across the black tiles like fog over a battlefield. He stood under the rainfall showerhead, back to me, water carving rivers down the ridges of his spine, over the hard curve of his ass, down thick thighs corded with muscle.

I didn’t speak. I just stepped inside, kicked off my sneakers, peeled my tank top over my head, shimmied out of my leggings. Naked. Heart hammering.

He turned when he heard the second set of footsteps on tile.

No surprise on his face. Just hunger. Pure, unfiltered.

“Thought you’d left,” he said, voice rough from shouting reps all evening.

“Thought you’d lock the door if you didn’t want company.”

He didn’t answer. He just reached out, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me under the spray.

Water hit my skin like a slap. Hot. Immediate. His mouth crashed into mine—teeth first, then tongue. No gentle exploration. We were both starving.

He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist, back pressed to cold tile. His cock—thick, heavy, already rock-hard—nudged against my entrance. I was dripping, and not just from the shower.

He didn’t ask. He just thrust in, one brutal stroke that made me cry out. The sound echoed off the walls. He fucked me standing, hard, fast, punishing. Each slam drove the breath from my lungs. My nails raked his shoulders. His hands gripped my ass so tight I knew I’d have bruises tomorrow.

“Harder,” I gasped.

He growled, shifted his angle, hit that spot inside me that made my vision white out. I came suddenly, violently—legs shaking, thighs clamping around him, a scream I couldn’t swallow. He didn’t slow. He fucked me through it, chasing his own release.

When he came, he buried himself to the hilt, pulsed deep inside me, hot and endless. I felt every throb. Then he lowered me slowly, let me slide down his body until my feet touched tile again.

We stood there panting, water still pouring over us.

He reached for the soap, lathered his hands, and started washing me—slow, deliberate, fingers tracing every tattoo, every scar. When he reached between my legs, he cleaned his own cum from my thighs with surprising tenderness.

I returned the favor. Soaped his chest, his abs, his cock—still half-hard even after. He groaned when I stroked him.

We didn’t speak much. Words felt unnecessary.

When the water finally ran cold, we shut it off. Dressed in silence. He walked me to the back exit.

At the door he kissed me once—soft this time, almost sweet.

“Thursday?” he asked.

I smiled. “Same time. Don’t be late.”

I stepped into the Berlin night with his taste on my lips and his fingerprints on my skin.

Some workouts leave you sore in the best ways.