The Back Room is for Members Only (Get it?)

Riley adjusted the strap of his sports bra, tugging it higher as he leaned into another slow stretch. The gym mirrors reflected his curves back at him—hips snug in painted-on shorts, legs toned from all the high-heel cardio Isabelle insisted on. He slipped one wireless bud out just long enough to catch the beat of his shoes squeaking on the mat, then slid it back in, letting the music thrum in his chest.

He loved this. Loved the way people's eyes flicked toward him between sets, the quick glances up and down his body. Men tried to be subtle, but Riley had gotten very good at reading the hunger in their eyes. Sometimes he even let himself linger back—staring at their groins, imagining what Chase would look like standing there, filling out those shorts with the kind of need only Riley could ease. But Chase wasn’t here. And no matter how much attention Riley got from strangers, he missed him.

The ache of it followed him between reps, his thoughts slipping back to the night before. He had been so eager to talk to Isabelle when she came home. He'd waited like a good girl, sitting primly in the little blue and white dress, rehearsing his questions over and over in his head.

What exactly did housewife mean? Why did those girls online have better prosthetics than me?

She'd listened—sort of. At first her eyes had sparkled, delighted when Riley told her that half the site was copying him, stealing his look, his outfits, his little tricks with makeup and ribbon. But then she had gone distant. Distracted. She'd laughed a little, made vague promises: "I'll think about it," "I'll get back to you." Then she slipped into her room and shut the door.

Riley's chest tightened just remembering it. Isabelle always knew best, of course. He trusted her implicitly. But still—it hurt to be brushed aside. Especially when he needed her guidance most.

He shook it off with a deep breath, sliding onto the stair machine. He loved this one, the way it worked his ass, the way his shorts rode up just a little higher with every step. And ever since he'd started working out in heels—another Isabelle trick—he knew he was putting on a show. His calves flexed beautifully, his thighs tightened with every push, and the little sway in his hips became something more than exercise.

He was just reaching for the handrail when he felt them—hands on his hips, firm, familiar. A body pressing against him from behind. The thick outline of a bulge digging into his backside.

Riley froze.

Then, smiling, he tugged a bud from his ear and turned his head.

"Chase! Baby!"

The sight of him sent a rush of warmth through Riley’s chest. He leaned back instinctively, lips parting, ready to kiss—but Chase didn't meet him halfway. His face was tight, urgent, his breath quick against Riley's neck.

"I need you," Chase said, voice strained, almost ****. "Now. Back room."

Before Riley could answer, Chase released his hips and caught his hand instead, tugging him firmly away from the machine.

Riley's heart fluttered, caught between surprise and a strange, nervous thrill. Poor Chase. He must be so stressed, wound up to the point of breaking. But Riley was here now. That was what girlfriends were for, wasn't it? To help, to soothe, to take the weight away.

And as Chase pulled him through the gym, Riley's smile softened. He was glad. Glad he could be there for him. Glad Chase needed him.