Fit For Me: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance

  Contents

  Fit For Me

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  Collaborations

  About the Author

  Fit For Me

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 267

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2021 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  Fit For Me

  I sign up for the chance to win Ryker Ridge’s fitness classes as a joke.

  At least, that’s what I tell my friend Sadie.

  But the truth is I’ve had a major crush since the second I laid eyes on the celebrity fitness instructor’s picture.

  With his silver streaked hair, his massive muscular form, and that intense look in his eyes, I’d be crazy not to.

  But this man has worked with superstar actresses, athletes, and models. He’d never want me.

  He’s a forty-three year old alpha, with a possessive way of staring at the camera, making me crazily jealous even if it makes no sense. I’m twenty, curvy, and so inexperienced it’s almost laughable.

  I might as well have the word virgin tattooed on my forehead.

  Then the impossible happens. I win. I almost back out, but I can’t, not like I did with my painting. It’s time I put myself out there… even if it scares the hell out of me.

  At first, I think Ryker hates me. He acts like it.

  But as the sessions continue, something magical happens, something truly crazy. It’s like he wants to claim me, to make me his, forever.

  And yet our happily ever after comes with a price.

  Ryker has made enemies, and they’ve set their sights on me.

  Is this lust and love all in my head? Does Ryker really want me?

  Or will the past catch up to us before I ever find out?

  * Fit For Me is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  Chapter One

  Ryker

  I work my body as hard as I can, for as long as I can. That’s the way it always is, the way it has to be.

  I push the bar until I feel like my muscles are going to burst out of my skin, my arms taut and tight, every muscle twitching.

  Finally, I return the bar to the bracket and sit up, wipe down my face with a towel and let out a shaky sigh.

  The gym is quiet this early in the morning, with a few other fitness fanatics pumping weights or sprinting on the treadmill. I’ve got a home gym in my apartment, of course, but there’s something about being in a real gym that reminds me of when I first started.

  This gym is especially important to me. It’s the one used when I started to take my job seriously.

  Before the money. Before the minor fame.

  Before the years caused me to look back and realize I still haven’t found anyone.

  I stand up with a shaky grim laugh, quiet under my breath. It’s not like I’ve been looking for anyone, so that’s an absurd thought to come into my mind. I don’t know why it keeps returning to me lately when it never did before.

  I’ve spent my life building up a successful fitness-instructor business, probably the most successful fitness-instructor business if you look at my resumé.

  I’ve worked with countless stars and been on set for innumerable Hollywood productions. I’ve established and worked with several charities. I’ve made myself a millionaire with my workouts.

  Walking across the gym toward the water fountain, I try to make myself feel the shining pride that so many others would at these achievements. But lately, as I walk around my large empty apartment, I feel a strange pang in my chest.

  It took me a while to work out what it was, several weeks of delving inside of myself – something I rarely do – until I could finally brand the unusual feeling with a name.

  Loneliness, goddamn loneliness, which is something I’ve never experienced. I’ve always been able to function like a lone wolf when I need to, focused on setting my body on fire with workouts, traveling from the East Coast to the West to help movie stars hone their bodies, hanging out with friends, or visiting mom and dad in Spain, their home for the past decade.

  I’ve always had projects, with my charity work, interviews, and three books.

  But at forty-three years old – though my body still feels lean and fit and ready for anything – my mind feels drained, hungry for a counterpart to share all this with.

  And there’s the problem, right there.

  I’ve never felt anything for a woman, any woman.

  I’ve never even come close to experiencing the rumbling thunder I’d need to make a woman mine, to possess her completely and totally, to own every inch of her skin and her soul, to forge a future together and—

  “Excuse me.” A woman’s voice cuts through the flow of my thoughts. “Are you done with that?”

  I turn to find a tall athletic woman staring up at me. She’s probably in her mid-twenties. I note in an academic sort of way that she’s the sort of woman other men might find attractive.

  She’s got dyed blonde hair in a tight bun, and yoga gear meant to show off her gym honed body. And she’s looking at me in that way women sometimes do, as though they’d be willing to come back to my place with nothing more than a head nod.

  I wave a hand at the water fountain. I’ve just been standing here, lost in thought, without even realizing it.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  I move to walk past her, but she takes a quick step to the side, into my path. “I just wanted to say...I saw the way you were going at it over there. And I was wondering if you could give me some pointers?”

  Reaching into my pocket, I take out a business card.

  I always keep a few on me, just in case, even though my wait list is crazy long these days.

  “Sure, you can call my office.”

  She reaches for the card, moving just a little too close, grazing my hand. I withdraw mine quickly once she’s taken the card. I’m not sure if she did it on purpose, but I’m not interested in her. There’s not even a passing whisper of interest.

  “I was thinking…” She gestures with the card, her cheeks turning red, as though she’s not used to this reaction from men. “We could maybe have a session now? I could find a way to repay you.”

  She puts emphasis on the word repay, leaving me with no doubt about what she means. I know this would be some men’s wildest fantasy, but it leaves me cold, feeling distant because I don’t want to claim my forever woman like this.

  When I find my woman – if I find her – I’m going to take her for life. I’m going to take her again and again until her body has no choice but to get pregnant, and then we’re going to be together, properly together, and I’ll never feel this strange loneliness again.

  Fuck.

  What am I thinking? I sound weak as hell right now, sinking into these self-pitying thoughts.

  I can’t let the fact I’m forty-three turn me soft.

  If I find my woman, fine. If I don’t, that’s fine too. I can’t waste time musing about it when there’s work to do, charities to support, workouts to smash.

  The woman’s still staring at me, waiting for an answer.

  “You can call my office,” I say, making my voice as friendly as I can.

  It’s not fair on her, but she’s making me feel goddamn sick. It’s not her as a person, but what she’s proposing – with her eyes, with the wannabe-seductive quirk to her lips – twists me up inside.

  Maybe it makes me an old fashioned bastard, but I don’t think women should throw themselves at men like that, at strangers. It doesn’t seem worth it for a couple
of hours of release.

  When I find my release, it’ll be with a woman who’s mine, only mine. And I’ll hurt any motherfucker who tries to take even a piece of her.

  She gapes when I stride past her, back to the bench.

  My mind is on the workout, just the workout – lifting the weights, letting out breath after breath through gritted teeth as I push for just one more rep.

  And yet even now, at the edges of my mind, there’s that new and annoying-as-fuck feeling.

  It’s like a niggling voice, almost like some primal part of me is waking up.

  Find your woman. You can’t be alone forever.

  Maybe this is what all men feel when they get to my age and they don’t have a partner, a wife, a mother to their children. A family. Maybe this is natural.

  And maybe that’s why so many men end up with women they don’t really want… want in that possessive and jealous and hungry way I need to want a woman.

  “Working hard?”

  I groan at the sound of Zane’s voice. I should’ve known better than to come to our old gym.

  Replacing the bar on the bracket, I stand and look across at my old business partner.

  He’s not looking too good these days, with bloodshot eyes and that manic quality buzzing across his expression. He’s a tall man – six-six to my six-seven – with wide shoulders, and I can tell he’s still working out. But I can also tell he’s getting a little help too, from the swollen puffy look around his face, his black hair is lanky like seaweed around his shoulders.

  “That’s not a very nice way to greet an old friend, is it, Ryker?” Zane folds his arms, grinning shakily. “I heard you just got back from LA.”

  “Yeah, and where’d you hear that?”

  “Twitter. That pop singer was singing your praises, saying he’s going to miss you. You know, the sort of shit they used to say about me.”

  I grind my teeth, remembering how we’d stood in this gym a decade and a half ago, me and my best friend Zane. I remember how we’d cheer each other on to complete the last rep, how excitedly the prick ran around the gym when we secured our first big contract.

  And it was all built on a lie.

  “What do you want, Zane?” I snarl.

  His face drops. “A little respect would do.”

  “You lost any right to ask for that the second you—”

  I cut myself off, reaching down for my gym bag.

  “You know what? Fuck this. Fuck this and fuck you.”

  Zane’s mouth falls open as I duck my head and make for the door, but he knows better than to stand in my way. Judging from his appearance – his clothes look worn, the color faded – I bet he was going to ask me for money.

  He’s done it before. And my answer has been the same every time.

  Fuck no.

  Not after what he did.

  I sit in my car, gripping the steering wheel, watching as light rain patters against the glass.

  The streetlights are still on, so I know Zane’s been up all night, probably drinking, probably doing a whole lot else. It must’ve seemed like a safe bet for him to find me here.

  But no, hell no. I refuse to spend my time obsessing over that prick.

  Taking out my phone, I navigate to my emails, seeing if I’ve got any East Coast appointments today. My secretary emails me any appointments because otherwise I’ll get caught up in a workout and sweat half the day away. Or end up on the phone with one of my gym managers for my fitness charity.

  There are dozens of emails, as usual, but I’ve become good at filtering through the trash.

  Finally, I reach what looks like an important one.

  Prize winner announced – one-on-one training sessions, starting tomorrow…

  I nod as I remember.

  As part of a fundraiser for the charity, I raffled off five free training sessions to a member of the public via Facebook. The prize was sponsored by several big sports and fitness equipment retailers, giving us more funds to open more gyms and help more underprivileged kids.

  As part of the requirements for the prize, the winner had to submit a photo and a short bio, along with answers to fitness related questions to help me tailor their workout.

  But I can’t think about any of that as I stare at the photo.

  At her photo.

  My woman, the woman I’ve been looking for, she’s staring back at me.

  With pale blue eyes and a wide smile across her gorgeously full face, with long dark brown hair falling in curls down to her shoulders, with a hoodie on that does nothing to hide her curves and yoga pants that do everything to accentuate them, I know I’ve finally found her.

  Thunder rumbles inside of me. Lightning strikes and pounds and roaring berserker desire barrels into me, as my manhood stiffens and my balls pulse with feral hunger.

  Roselind Williams.

  She’s put “Rosie” in quotes next to her name, and I repeat it in my mind over and over again.

  Rosie, Rosie, Rosie.

  Fuck.

  She’s mine. I have to have her.

  My search is over.

  This woman belongs to me.

  Chapter Two

  Rosie

  “I won that fitness raffle,” I announce over breakfast.

  Breakfast has been an important ritual in the Williams household ever since I became a member since my best friend’s family adopted me when I was just ten years old. I don’t like thinking about what brought me to this home, but I’ll never stop being grateful for the mere fact I’m here with them.

  Sadie smiles over at me, my best friend always with a glint of genuine kindness in her eyes. She’s short, like me, but she veers toward the thinner side whereas I… I’m curvy, maybe a little too curvy some might say.

  Hell, I know the jackasses in high school did.

  God, I’m glad to be free of that dumpster fire.

  “That’s great, sis,” Sadie says, brushing a hand through her stylish pixie cut.

  We started calling each other sis the year I moved in. We made a promise that we’d treat each other like sisters, even if we’re not biologically related.

  “I still don’t think you need it,” Josephine declares.

  I smile over at my adopted mother. Sometimes it’s difficult to believe I’m the adopted one, not Sadie, because Josephine and I look so much alike. She’s got long dark brown hair, like me – okay, hers is dyed, but still – and she’s on the curvier side too.

  She’s also a painter, like me… or, at least, like I aspire to be.

  Her eyes always with a mischievous glimmer to them.

  “Mom, it isn’t about her needing it,” Sadie says, idly moving her spoon around her cereal bowl. “It’s about the massive crush attack she got the moment she saw Ryker what’s-his-names pictures, the man who was running the raffle.”

  “Ridge, it’s Ryker Ridge,” I murmur.

  A thrill goes through me as the truth of her words slams into me, my heart pounding and sending surging tempting tingles around my body.

  She’s right.

  The second I saw Ryker Ridge staring back from the post on Facebook, with his steel streaked hair and that intense twist to his lips – with his bare muscular arms that I just know would feel so freaking good, so freaking safe wrapped around me – I felt something I’ve never experienced before.

  It was like there was this feeling deep inside of me, this carnal compulsion, screaming at me to find a way to be with this man, screaming at me to give myself to him the first chance I got.

  Of course, that’s the silliest thought in the universe. He’d never want me. But, with Sadie’s encouragement, I entered the raffle, even if I felt a little silly as I stood for the full-length picture.