White Wife's Black Personal Trainer Claims Her Tight Body

The soft clink of weights filled the converted basement gym as Emily adjusted her stance on the yoga mat. At twenty-eight, the slender blonde housewife had once turned heads everywhere she went, but six years of marriage to a high-strung executive had left her body soft in places she didn’t like and her bed cold for far too long. When her husband, Richard, had finally glanced up from his phone long enough to suggest she “get in shape,” she had rolled her eyes and booked the first personal trainer she could find.

That trainer was Marcus.

Thirty-two, six-foot-three, and built like a marble statue carved from deep obsidian, Marcus moved with a calm authority that made the air feel thicker whenever he stepped into the room. His voice was a low, rolling baritone that seemed to vibrate through her ribs. From the very first session two weeks ago, Emily had felt it: the unspoken charge between them. The way his large dark hands would linger a second too long on her hips while correcting her form. The way his eyes, sharp and hungry, tracked the sway of her ass when she squatted in the tiny pale-blue workout shorts she’d started wearing just for him.

Today was no different.