After Hours at Anchor

⚠️ This bonus scene takes place four months after the events of Pining in Plain Sight. Spoilers ahead. Explicit MM content. 18+ only.

The gym was closed. The lights were off — all of them, not the half-brightness after-hours setting but full dark, the only illumination coming from the emergency exit signs casting red pools on the rubber floor and the streetlight filtering through the front windows.

It was my idea. Which, in retrospect, was out of character enough that Nate had spent the entire walk from the apartment staring at me like I’d suggested we rob a bank.

“You want to break into your own gym,” he said.

“It’s not breaking in. I have a key. It’s entering.”

“At eleven o’clock at night. With the lights off.”

“The lights are off because we don’t need them.”

“What do we need?”

I unlocked the front door. Held it open. “Get inside, Nate.”

He got inside. I locked the door behind us. The gym exhaled its nighttime smell — rubber, chalk, the ghost of a hundred workouts soaked into the walls. Tonight, in the dark, with the man I loved breathing like someone who’d just realized what was about to happen, it felt charged. The way a church feels different at midnight than at noon.

“Cal.” His voice in the dark. Low. The register he used in bed. “What are we doing here?”

“You said you wanted to know what it felt like to be trained by me.”

“I’ve been trained by you for four months.”

“Not like this.” I crossed to the sound system. Queued something with bass and no lyrics. The speakers came alive, low enough to feel rather than hear.

“Take off your shirt,” I said.

His mouth curved into something slow and dangerous. “Is that an instruction, Coach?”

The word. Coach. In that voice. In this room. I felt it in my spine, my stomach, the base of my cock.

“That’s an instruction.”

He pulled his shirt over his head. Stood in the red glow of the exit sign, bare-chested, the definition we’d built together visible in the half-light. My work. My hands. Looking at me like I was the workout.

“Bench. Lie down.”

He lay down on the bench press. The same position from the first night I’d spotted him. I stepped into the spot behind the bench, my body above his.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” I said. “The first time I stood here and your whole body changed. Your pupils dilated. You racked the bar so fast the metal rang. And you got hard during the stretching. What I didn’t tell you was that I went home that night and jerked off thinking about it. I came in under two minutes. Thinking about your face. About what you’d sound like if I slid my hand three inches higher.”

His chest was rising faster now. The flush creeping up his neck.

“Sit up.” He sat up. I stood between his knees, his face level with my chest. “Every time I trained you, I was touching you the way I wanted to touch you and pretending it was professional. Every hand on your hip. Every sit tall, open your chest. The only thing between training and sex was context. Tonight there’s no context.”

He reached for my belt. I caught his wrists.

“Not yet. I’m training you. Follow instructions.”

The sound he made — a low, frustrated, desperately aroused whine that echoed off the gym walls — was worth every second of the seven years I’d waited.

“Squat rack. Now.”

He gripped the empty barbell. I pressed against his back — chest to spine, hips to ass, my mouth beside his ear.

“This is the position from your first squat adjustment. My hands on your hips. My mouth right here.”

“I remember,” he breathed. “I went home and tried not to jerk off about it. Turned the shower to cold.”

“And now?”

“Now if you don’t put your hands on me in the next five seconds I’m going to break this barbell over your head and do it myself.”

I unbuttoned his jeans. Slid my hand inside. He was hard — straining, hot, already wet at the tip. I spread the slick down his shaft with a slow, twisting stroke that made his knuckles go white on the bar.

“Hold the bar. Don’t let go.”

I stroked him deliberately, maddeningly slow — root to tip, thumb circling the head on every upstroke, my other hand flat on his stomach pinning him against me. His hips tried to thrust into my fist and I controlled the pace with my body.

“Good. You take instruction so well. You always have. Even when you didn’t know what I was really teaching you.”

I gave him faster. Tightened my grip. Matched the rhythm to the bass pulsing through the speakers, a beat his hips picked up instinctively, fucking into my fist in time with the music while I held him from behind and talked him higher.

“You should see yourself right now. Holding onto that bar with your knuckles white and your head dropped forward and your whole body shaking for me. This is what I imagined. Every late night in this gym. Every time I wiped down this rack. I thought about exactly this.”

“I’m going to come — Cal, I’m going to—”

I pulled my hand away.

He made a sound like I’d hit him. “What the — Cal, what the fuck—”

“Not yet. Every piece of equipment. We’ve only done one.”

“You are the worst person I have ever—”

“Turn around.”

He turned. Back against the rack, jeans open, cock jutting hard and flushed, a bead of precome catching the red light. His face was a masterpiece of frustration and desire.

I dropped to my knees.

The gym floor was hard under my kneecaps. The mat smelled like chalk and years of work. And the man standing above me was the reason I’d built all of it.

I pulled his jeans and boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free. I wrapped my hand around the base, looked up at him, and said, “Watch me.”

I took him in my mouth. Not teasing — deep, lips stretched around his shaft, tongue flat and firm against the underside. His head cracked back against the steel with a clang that echoed through the empty gym. His hands flew to my hair.

“Oh God — oh fuck, Cal, your mouth—”

I worked him with everything I’d learned. The spot on the underside where a slow swirl of tongue made his thighs shake. The pressure at the base that made his hips buck. The rhythm — three shallow strokes then one deep, my throat relaxing to take him to the root — that turned his words into broken syllables and his breathing into something closer to sobbing.

My hand worked the base in sync. My other hand gripped his hip, controlling the depth while he fell apart above me. His fingers clenched in my hair, cradling, not gripping — the way he always held me during this, with tenderness rather than force.

“Your mouth — Cal, your fucking mouth, I can’t — I’m going to—”

I pulled off. Slowly. Let him feel every inch of the drag.

“I hate you,” he gasped. “I genuinely, sincerely hate you right now.”

“No you don’t.” I stood. Kissed him — deep, filthy, letting him taste himself on my tongue. His hands were on my belt immediately, yanking, shoving until we were both exposed, both hard, pressed together in the narrow frame of the squat rack.

He wrapped his hand around both of us — the grip he’d perfected, the twist at the top. His thumb swiped over both our tips, spreading the combined slick, and the dual sensation made my knees buckle.

“I want you,” he said. “On the mat. Inside me. Now.”

“Left jacket pocket?”

The grin. “Lube and a condom. I packed supplies.”

“You planned this.”

“You planned a dark-gym seduction with a curated playlist. I brought logistics. We’re both guilty.”

The stretching mat. The same mat where I’d pushed his knee toward his chest four months ago and felt his body answer a question his brain wasn’t ready to ask.

He lay down. I knelt between his legs. The red light painted his body in warm shadows — the planes of his chest, the hard line of his cock, the spread of his thighs opening for me.

“I built this body,” I said, running my hands up his thighs. “Every rep. Every set.” I kissed the inside of his thigh. “And I’m going to use every inch of it tonight.”

I slicked my fingers. Pressed one against him, circling.

“Breathe through it,” I said. Our private language. Trust me. Let me in. I’ve got you.

“You know what that does to me.”

“That’s why I said it.”

I pressed inside. One finger, slow, feeling him open around me. He arched off the mat. A second finger. Deeper. I curved them, finding the angle that made his spine bow and his voice crack. His cock jumped against his stomach, leaking onto his skin.

“Cal — please — I need—”

“Tell me what you need. Specifically.”

“I need your cock inside me. I need you to fuck me on this mat in this gym until neither of us can walk. Is that specific enough?”

I rolled the condom on. Slicked myself. Positioned my cock against him and paused — because this moment, every time, deserved the weight of seeing him and knowing he was mine.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too. Now please, for the love of God—”

I pushed inside. The sound we made — both of us, a shared groan that filled the dark gym like a chord — was deep and raw and unguarded. Two bodies that fit together with a precision that felt inevitable.

I bottomed out. Held. Felt him clench around me, adjust, breathe.

“Move. Cal, please move.”

Slow at first. Long strokes that let him feel every inch — the drag, the stretch, the aching fullness. His legs wrapped around my waist. His heels dug into my lower back, pulling me deeper.

“Harder.” And when I gave him harder: “Fuck — yes, like that, right there, don’t stop—”

I found the angle and drove into it. My hips snapping forward. My hands gripping his thighs, spreading him wider, holding him open on the mat where I’d first touched him and known I was lost.

“You’re perfect,” I said against his throat. “The way you take me — the way your body opens for me — you have no idea what you look like right now. Spread on this mat. In my gym. Taking everything I give you and asking for more.”

“More. Give me more. Everything.”

I pulled out. He whimpered at the loss. I flipped him — on his stomach, chest against the mat, ass in the air. Pressed back inside from behind. Deeper at this angle. He cried out, muffled by the mat, the echo carrying off the walls and mirrors.

I fucked him. Hard. Deep. The slap of skin on skin echoing through the empty gym, my hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave marks. His face pressed into the mat and his voice cracking on every thrust.

“Cal — Cal — oh fuck, I’m — right there, don’t you dare stop—”

I reached under him. Wrapped my hand around his cock — hard, leaking, throbbing in my grip. Stroked him in time with my thrusts, the dual rhythm building toward something enormous.

“Come for me,” I said into the back of his neck. “Right here. On this mat. In our gym. Come for me, Nate.”

He came. Hard. Violent. His whole body clenching around me, his cock pulsing in my hand, spilling onto the mat while he screamed my name — actually screamed it, the sound bouncing off every surface, filling the space the way his body filled my arms.

The clench of him pulled me over. I came inside him with a groan that started in my chest and ended somewhere outside my body, my hips stuttering, my forehead pressed between his shoulder blades.

We collapsed. I pulled out carefully. Lay on my back beside him, staring at the ceiling of my gym — the steel beams I’d installed four years ago when this place was an empty shell and Nate Price was a man I loved from a distance.

He rolled toward me. Head on my chest. Circles on my stomach.

“So,” he said. His voice was destroyed. “How many more pieces of equipment?”

“We haven’t touched the cable machine. Or the plyo boxes. Or the rowing station.”

“The rowing station seems structurally unsound for sex.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Cal Rourke. Four months in and still full of surprises.”

“Seven years. I’ve had seven years to plan this.”

He lifted his head. That smile — the one that cracked his whole face open.

“The cable machine,” he said. “Show me what you had in mind.”

“Now?”

“We’ve got all night. The gym doesn’t open until six.” He kissed my jaw. My neck. The hollow of my throat. “Train me, Coach.”

I stood. Pulled him up. Led him across the dark gym to the cable station, his hand in mine, bare feet on rubber.

Seven years of planning. One night to execute. We weren’t even close to done.

“Worth the wait?” he asked, as I positioned him against the cable tower and his breath caught at the cold steel against his bare back.

I kissed him. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that was both a period and a beginning.

“Every second.”

Every single one.

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