Distance Made Him Mine

I Like Guys Who Go to the Gym

Sleep didn’t come easily after that audio message. His rough, 3 AM voice kept echoing in my head, a low frequency that resonated straight through my chest every time I closed my eyes.

By Monday morning, my entire routine had dissolved into a dangerous dance centered around his schedule.

I was at my desk at work, pretending to analyze quarterly spreadsheets while my eyes darted every three minutes to the screen of my phone. It was mid-afternoon for me, which meant it was early morning over in his time zone.

Ping.

A notification popped up from his main number.

** Him:** Up. Heading in.

Attached was a quick snap of his dashboard, the clock on his display glowing red in the pre-dawn darkness, a shaker cup resting in the cup holder.

I leaned back in my office chair, a slow, unconscious smile curving my lips.

** Me:** Look at you. An early bird now? Who are you and what have you done with the guy who sleeps until noon on weekends?

** Him:** The guy who slept until noon didn't have motivation.

** Me:** Oh? And what's the motivation?

** Him:** You know what it is. Don't play dumb.

My heart did a quick, familiar flutter. I leaned my chin on my palm, my fingers flying over the glass.

** Me:** Remind me again. I have a terrible memory.

Instead of a text, my phone screen immediately transformed into an incoming audio clip. I hastily plugged in my earbuds, pressing play before my boss could walk past my cubicle.

"I like guys who go to the gym," his recorded voice purred directly into my ear, repeating the exact words I’d teased him with over a week ago in that loud, neon-lit lounge. "I believe those were your exact words, sweetheart. 'I like guys who lift heavy, stay fit, and don't spend sixteen hours behind a desk.'"

A pause in the audio, followed by the heavy, rustling sound of him stepping out of his car into the crisp morning air.

"I'm sitting at a forty-five percent muscle mass target with my trainer," he continued, his voice dropping into that dark, low register that made my toes curl inside my heels. "I'm doing two-a-days three times a week. Every time my arms burn on a set, every time I want to rack the bar and quit, I just replay your voice in my head. That comment changed everything, baby. You set the standard. Now I'm reaching it."

I swallowed hard, the heat rushing up my neck so fast I was certain my cheeks were bright red. I yanked the earbuds out, staring at the phone as if it had suddenly caught fire.

He was out of his mind. Unhinged. Completely consumed.

And I was loving every single second of it.

By Friday evening, the subtle shift in our dynamic had turned into a full-blown addiction.

I was out at a quiet restaurant with two girlfriends, nursing a glass of red wine while they gossiped about their respective dating app nightmares.

"I'm telling you, chaps are just lazy these days," Sarah groaned, twirling pasta on her fork. "If a guy doesn't reply within six hours, I just delete the match. What about you? You've been glued to your screen all week. Who is he?"

I looked up from my phone, suddenly feeling guilty. I’d been half-listening to them for the last forty minutes while discreetly replying to his updates.

"Just... someone I met," I said vaguely, taking a sip of wine. "Lives far away."

"How far?" Mia asked, leaning in with narrow eyes. "Because you have that look."

"What look?"

"The 'I haven't slept properly in a week because I'm late-night texting someone who drives me crazy' look," Mia pointed out with a smirk. "Is he cute?"

"He's..." I paused, searching for the right word. "Relentless."

Right on cue, my phone buzzed in my hand.

** Him:** What are you wearing tonight?

I bit my bottom lip, hiding a smile from my friends as I typed back beneath the edge of the white tablecloth.

** Me:** A black backless dress. Wine glass in hand. Having dinner with girls.

** Him:** Backless?

** Me:** Problem, desk boy?

** Him:** Send a picture.

** Me:** I'm at a restaurant table. No.

** Him:** Go to the restroom and take one. I want to see you.

The demanding tone sent a sharp, electric jolt straight to my lower stomach. I looked up at Sarah and Mia, who were deep in conversation about work drama, completely oblivious to the silent battle happening beneath the table.

"I'll be right back," I murmured, sliding out of the booth and grabbing my clutch.

Inside the restaurant’s dimly lit, marble-tiled restroom, I stood in front of the large gilded mirror. The black silk dress clung to my waist, dipping low down my back in a daring 'V' that exposed smooth skin down to my spine.

I turned slightly, holding up my phone, angled the camera over my shoulder to capture the bare curve of my back and the sharp line of my jaw, and hit send before my nerves could talk me out of it.

** Me:** Happy now?

The response didn't come in text.

The screen instantly flashed with an incoming video call.

I gasped, looking around the empty restroom before hastily sliding the bar to accept, keeping my back to the mirror.

His face filled the display. He was sitting in what looked like his private office, surrounded by dark wooden paneling and stacked files, but his suit jacket was off, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

His dark eyes immediately tracked over the screen, locking onto the reflection of my bare back in the mirror behind me.

His breath hitched audibly through the speaker.

"f**k," he muttered under his breath, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his mahogany desk as his eyes burned into the glass. "You did that on purpose."

"You asked for a picture," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs as I stared at his intense expression. "I just delivered."

"That dress is a hazard," he said, his voice laced with a dark, territorial friction that made my pulse race. "Who else is in that restaurant looking at you like that?"

"Nobody," I lied smoothly, enjoying the dark possessiveness radiating through the line. "Just my friends."

"Good," he growled low. "Because if I were there right now, my hands would be right over that open skin on your lower back, pulling you out of that venue so fast your heels wouldn't touch the floor."

I held my breath, the air in the quiet marble bathroom turning suffocatingly thick. The distance between us suddenly felt entirely artificial, paper-thin, crushed beneath the weight of his stare.

"You're thousands of miles away," I reminded him softly, my voice trembling slightly. "You can't touch anything."

His lips curved into a dangerous, promise-filled smirk. He reached out, his thumb tracing the glass of his screen right over the image of my collarbone.

"Not yet," he whispered, his eyes narrowing with a lethal certainty. "But every workout, every weight I lift, every mile between us... it's all just counting down the clock, sweetheart. You told me what you like. Now you're going to have to deal with what you created."

Before I could reply, the heavy restroom door creaked open, and a woman walked in.

"I have to go," I whispered hastily into the mic.

"Enjoy your dinner," he said softly, his dark eyes holding mine until the last second. "And wear a jacket on the way home. I don't want anyone else looking at what's mine."

I ended the call, leaning back against the cold sink as my breathing came in short, shallow gasps.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror—flushed skin, wide eyes, lips slightly parted. The comment about liking gym guys had started as a sarcastic joke to put him in his place.

Now, it was turning into the very thing consuming my entire world.

My phone chimed with one final text.

** Him:** Check your lock screen in five minutes. I just sent you something.

I frowned, waiting out the five minutes in the quiet hallway outside the dining room. When the clock struck 19:33, a notification popped up from his private gallery link.

I tapped it.

It was a fifteen-second video clip.

He was in a private gym room, wearing black workout shorts and a short-sleeve shirt. He walked up to a heavy barbell loaded with massive iron plates. He bent down, locked his grip around the bar, his back perfectly straight, veins bulging along his forearms and calves.

With a brutal, exploding surge of strength, he deadlifted the massive weight off the floor, his jaw clenched, muscles straining under his skin with terrifying power. He held it at the top for three solid seconds, his chest broad, his frame imposing.

Then, he dropped the iron with a deafening, thunderous boom that vibrated through my phone's speaker.

He stepped right up to the camera, sweaty, chest heaving, wiping his jaw with the back of his hand. He looked straight into the lens, his dark eyes wild, dangerous, and completely focused on me.

"That was three hundred and fifty pounds," he panted into the mic, his voice thick and victorious. "For you."