her approval or attention. She’d never accept, or even try to understand, her athletic daughter who would rather play with some ball and stick, as she put it, and work up a sweat, then hit the books and study something in a far-off ancient language.
“Well, is there something you want, Fiona?” Her mother’s words were clipped. They dropped like ice cubes from her mouth.
“No, Mom.” Fiona gave the woman her best look of disgust and loathing, although it was a complete waste of time, because Aileen Muir was looking at the papers on her desk and not at her daughter.
Fiona finally finished her art history paper, no thanks to her mother, and it was just going to have to be good enough for her college professor, because she wasn’t wasting another minute on it. To reward herself, she went down to the kitchen to make a protein shake.
She opened the fridge to grab a Greek yogurt, trying to decide between a good run or some time with the weights to work out the frustration she had built up, sexual and otherwise, after seeing her parents together. As she shut the door, she heard the familiar sounds—deep breathing and slow, steady, methodical movements—of Bryan working out in their home training room. He’d built it long before he’d opened his own chain of gyms. That’s where he’d created his low-tech fitness workout method that his gym chains were now known for, from heavy ropes to tractor tires.
She sighed, touching her mouth again, like a muscle memory, imagining his cock between them, making her lips swell with the hot friction of his thrusts. She put the Greek yogurt back and settled for a bottle of water with a slow smile and a lazy lick of her lips, going off to find him. The gym door was open and she saw his back muscles ripple through a set of sledge hammer swings. Although he moved at a fast, angry pace, he kept his form. She studied him while he didn’t know she was there, drinking the man in with her eyes. How she longed to touch him and be touched by him. How could her mother resist? She didn’t understand it.
Fiona leaned against the doorway, her chest full of pride and admiration for him, but her stomach clenched at the memory of her mother demeaning him, “taking care” of him as if he were just another job, a box to tick on a checklist. Her mother looked down on him, treating him like some failed project. Fiona knew how that felt, for sure. It made her want to go to him and the urge to hug him was overwhelming. Her mother’s harsh judgment was swift and severe once she realized she couldn’t make either of them like her.
“Hey, Sarge, you’re puffing like a POG,” Fiona joked, using a Marine insult, one reserved for non-marines, an acronym for “Person Other than Grunt.” They often teased each other this way, but she wondered, after the incident with her mother, if he might take it badly. She waited for his response, holding her own breath.
“Really? Well, look who’s talking, there, civilian. You obviously haven’t even attempted to work up a sweat yet today,” her stepfather playfully bantered back. His grin set her at ease.
“No, I have a college degree to earn, remember?” She rolled her eyes. “You were the one who insisted I do college, instead of come work for you, remember?”
“I did, and still do,” he agreed, his mouth going all serious on her. She liked him better when he was smiling, laughing. He didn’t do that enough anymore.
“Fine. Then don’t complain when I don’t get here on time. Not like…” she left off, not wanting to even bring up the subject of her mother or complain about the lack of help she’d received. She just wanted to work out with him, like they always did, and forget. “So, whatcha got for me? Make it good. I need to de-stress after that horrid, boring paper I just had to write.”
“Fine. I challenge you to a medicine ball competition. Fifteen pounds, back and forth, see who can last the longest,” he challenged as he rose
“Well, is there something you want, Fiona?” Her mother’s words were clipped. They dropped like ice cubes from her mouth.
“No, Mom.” Fiona gave the woman her best look of disgust and loathing, although it was a complete waste of time, because Aileen Muir was looking at the papers on her desk and not at her daughter.
Fiona finally finished her art history paper, no thanks to her mother, and it was just going to have to be good enough for her college professor, because she wasn’t wasting another minute on it. To reward herself, she went down to the kitchen to make a protein shake.
She opened the fridge to grab a Greek yogurt, trying to decide between a good run or some time with the weights to work out the frustration she had built up, sexual and otherwise, after seeing her parents together. As she shut the door, she heard the familiar sounds—deep breathing and slow, steady, methodical movements—of Bryan working out in their home training room. He’d built it long before he’d opened his own chain of gyms. That’s where he’d created his low-tech fitness workout method that his gym chains were now known for, from heavy ropes to tractor tires.
She sighed, touching her mouth again, like a muscle memory, imagining his cock between them, making her lips swell with the hot friction of his thrusts. She put the Greek yogurt back and settled for a bottle of water with a slow smile and a lazy lick of her lips, going off to find him. The gym door was open and she saw his back muscles ripple through a set of sledge hammer swings. Although he moved at a fast, angry pace, he kept his form. She studied him while he didn’t know she was there, drinking the man in with her eyes. How she longed to touch him and be touched by him. How could her mother resist? She didn’t understand it.
Fiona leaned against the doorway, her chest full of pride and admiration for him, but her stomach clenched at the memory of her mother demeaning him, “taking care” of him as if he were just another job, a box to tick on a checklist. Her mother looked down on him, treating him like some failed project. Fiona knew how that felt, for sure. It made her want to go to him and the urge to hug him was overwhelming. Her mother’s harsh judgment was swift and severe once she realized she couldn’t make either of them like her.
“Hey, Sarge, you’re puffing like a POG,” Fiona joked, using a Marine insult, one reserved for non-marines, an acronym for “Person Other than Grunt.” They often teased each other this way, but she wondered, after the incident with her mother, if he might take it badly. She waited for his response, holding her own breath.
“Really? Well, look who’s talking, there, civilian. You obviously haven’t even attempted to work up a sweat yet today,” her stepfather playfully bantered back. His grin set her at ease.
“No, I have a college degree to earn, remember?” She rolled her eyes. “You were the one who insisted I do college, instead of come work for you, remember?”
“I did, and still do,” he agreed, his mouth going all serious on her. She liked him better when he was smiling, laughing. He didn’t do that enough anymore.
“Fine. Then don’t complain when I don’t get here on time. Not like…” she left off, not wanting to even bring up the subject of her mother or complain about the lack of help she’d received. She just wanted to work out with him, like they always did, and forget. “So, whatcha got for me? Make it good. I need to de-stress after that horrid, boring paper I just had to write.”
“Fine. I challenge you to a medicine ball competition. Fifteen pounds, back and forth, see who can last the longest,” he challenged as he rose
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