Page 7 of The Titan and the Trainer

He felt like he was on fire.

He finally turned and headed for the private elevator that led to the secure underground garage. When the doors opened, his head of security, Markus, was already standing by an armoured Mercedes G-Wagon, its engine idling with a low, expensive hum.

“Everything alright, sir?” Markus asked, eyes neutral but observant. He’d worked for Julian for six years; he knew the CEO’s moods like a weather pattern.

“Fine, Markus, just a late night,” he said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.. He climbed into the back seat, the door closing with a heavy, airtight thud that shut out the world.

As the SUV pulled out into the Manhattan streets, Julian leaned his head back against the cool leather headrest and closed his eyes. The only image he could see was Callum in that leather harness. He saw those inviting dark brown eyes that seemed to look right through his corporate armour. He saw the neat, rugged trim of his beard and the way his broad muscular shoulders, not just gym-built for show, filled out his hoodie.

Every day since their first session, Julian had been haunted by the memory of Callum’s hand on his shoulder. It had been a simple professional correction, but the heat of it had felt like a brand, leaving a permanent mark.

Then tonight, Callum’s hand again in the small of his back when he was doing the squats, supporting him, reassuring him, showing him what was possible. It was quite humbling that this young guy could have such an effect on him. He’d never needed help, and it didn’t seem possible that he’d only met this guy twice but already couldn’t forget him.

Julian had spent his entire adult life building a fortress around himself, projecting the image of the Titan, the stoic, untouchable leader who didn’t have time for the messiness of emotion. In boardrooms, manly leadership meant being a statue, devoid of any visible emotion. It meant never wavering, never doubting, and certainly not needing love.

Lower Manhattan sped past as they drove towards his penthouse. Beside them, the river was as dark and restless as his thoughts in that moment.

Callum thinks I have it all, he thought bitterly to himself. He looks at my office and thinks I’m the one with the power, but the truth was, Callum was the free one. Callum could walk into a club in a leather harness and dance freely under neon lights. Callum could be exactly who he was, whilst Julian was a prisoner of his own success. He was the most eligible bachelor in the city, a title that felt like a death sentence. It meant every public move was scrutinised, every date was the result of a PR calculation. Callum had reminded him of something he wanted beyond what he already owned, and it scared him.

The SUV pulled into the private, high-security garage of his financial district residence. Heavy steel gates hissed shut behind him, sealing Julian into the silence he both paid for and loathed in equal measure.

“See you at seven, Markus,” he said, his voice flat as he exited the vehicle. He didn’t wait for a reply. He entered his private elevator, the ascent to the penthouse feeling like a climb into a self-imposed world of loneliness and isolation.

He crossed the lobby, white lilies a blur, and was met with the soft warm glow of the kitchen lights. Martha, his longtime housekeeper, the only person who had seen him at his most vulnerable, was just finishing a final wipe of the marble island.

“You’re late tonight, Mr. Newman,” she said, her voice carrying a gentle, motherly reprimand. She didn’t look up, her movements practised and calm. “I left sea bass in the warmer, but it’ll be dry if you don’t eat it soon.”

Julian stopped. The sight of domesticity felt jarringly out of sync with the dark storm brewing inside him. He felt like he was vibrating with the memory of Callum’s leather-clad chest, his skin still prickling from the gaze of a man who actually saw him.

“Thank you, Martha,” Julian said, forcing his voice into a steadier register. “I’m not hungry. You can go for the night. Get some rest.”

Martha paused, sensing the tension radiating off him. She’d worked for him long enough to know when he was carrying the weight of a billion-dollar merger, but this looked different. He looked… haunted. “Are you ok, sir? Maybe I could make you some tea?”

“No, I’m fine,” he insisted, a bit too quickly. “Go, please. It’s late.”

Martha nodded, untying her apron. “Very well. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Goodnight, Mr. Newman.” She gathered her things and headed for the door.

As it clicked shut, the penthouse plummeted into a silence so profound that it felt heavy.

Julian didn’t go to the kitchen. He walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Brooklyn Bridge a skeleton of black metal and stone outside the glass. He stood there in the dark, his reflection ghost-like against the life of the city.

He thought about Callum’s hands, those rough trainer’s hands. He imagined them not on his shoulders, but on his skin, stripping away the Tom Ford suit, the ego and the lies. Lately, he’d thought of nothing but Callum when he jacked off, and that had been way more than usual. He thought with a smile that he’d get callused hands like Callum’s, because his fantasies were becoming increasingly vivid, and increasingly desperate.

He’d imagined exploring Callum’s tight body, pinning him against the desk or maybe being pinned against the desk himself. Now all he could think of was that leather harness, pulling hard on it as he fucked Callum. The idea was so hot to him. Either that or the fantasy of steaming shower water running over their bodies as they fucked in the corporate showers on the 48th floor of his building…

“Callum, the personal trainer,” he whispered to an empty room.

The name felt like a prayer and a confession. He was thirty-nine years old, and for the first time in his life he didn’t want a merger or a legacy. He wanted this man to look at him and see him, just him, for who he was..

He reached for his phone and found Callum’s contact info. He wanted to text him, but what would he even say? They weren’t even friends; it was purely a business relationship. He stood there in the dark, an imprisoned king in his glass castle terrified of the very thing that could rescue him and set him free.

He released his erection from his pants and closed his eyes. That was all he had to do to see Callum. He wanked as he stood against the dark glass window. No one could see him, but he could see them. However, there was only one face he wanted to see.

***

Across town, the bass at The Vault was a physical weight, vibrating through Callum’s ribcage as he stood on his illuminated podium. To the crowd he was a hot fantasy in leather, a moving sculpture under the strobe lights. But inside his head he was miles away, back on the 50th floor.

He caught the eye of Leo, a fellow trainer who worked at a high-end boutique gym by day and danced on the opposite podium by night. When their sets ended at 2:00 a.m., they huddled in the cramped, sweaty dressing room for a drink.