All Chapters of My Husband’s Brother, My Filthy Trainer: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

JAKE The lake-house gym was too small for four people and a lie. It smelled like rubber mats and old sweat and the cheap citrus spray they used to wipe things down, and every time I breathed in I could still smell last night — pine and lake wind and her, right there in the kitchen, so close I could have leaned in and kissed her before the light ever flipped on. The walls were thin, the windows small, and there wasn’t a corner in here that didn’t feel crowded by everything we weren’t supposed to say. Clara was already stretching when I walked in, bending slow toward her toes, hair pulled back neat, bright smile already in place like she’d practiced it in the mirror. Ryan had Mia over near the mats, talking her through a warm-up like he’d invented squats himself, like he knew anything about how her body moved. He was loud, too loud, counting out reps like he was performing for an audience. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, cheeks pink, shoulders hunched in like she was try

MIA Lunch looked normal if you didn’t listen too hard. Sunlight spilled across the wooden table, dappled and soft through the leaves overhead, gilding the edges of every plate. There was grilled chicken still giving off heat, salad tossed with fresh herbs, crusty bread, slices of melon glistening like someone had arranged them just so. Everything was bright, everything was plentiful, everything looked exactly like the kind of family meal people took photos of and posted online. But the air felt thin, stretched tight over something sharp, and every time I lifted my fork I could feel it — the quiet, the things no one was saying, the way eyes flicked toward me and away again like I was something they weren’t sure how to place. Ryan cut his meat slow, neat, like it mattered how straight the slices were, and checked his phone between bites, thumb swiping fast at the screen. “I have to go back after this. Work’s piling up. They’ve been calling and messaging all morning, won’t let it

MIAThe kiss did not stay at the door. It followed me, heavy and unrelenting, as he walked me backward step by step until the bedframe hit the back of my legs and I stumbled half-down. His mouth never left mine — hungry the way it had been in the dark kitchen, only worse now because the door was shut and locked and Ryan was hours away, miles away, safe in the city believing I was exactly where he’d left me. I grabbed the lapels of Jake’s jacket, fingers curling tight into the fabric, and for half a heartbeat I meant to push him away, meant to shove him hard and tell him this was wrong — but my hands didn’t push. They curled tighter, pulled him closer instead, and I hated myself for it even as I did it.He made a low, rough sound against my mouth, something half-groan half-triumph, and tipped me backward onto the mattress.“Jake —” I breathed his name like a warning, like a plea, like something I shouldn’t have said out loud.He followed me down, covering my body with his, one knee

MIAHis mother was already in the pool when I came out with the tray. The glass rattled soft in my hands with every step, like it knew how tight my grip was. Juice, toast, eggs I had made too carefully — scrambled just how she liked them, not too dry, not too runny — like cooking could fix it, like perfectly seasoned food could make last night vanish and leave us all just normal people eating a normal Saturday morning breakfast. The lake stretched out bright and endless past the trees, sunlight hitting the water so hard it hurt to look at, and the deck was quiet except for the soft, steady splash of her strokes. She swam slow, even laps, back and forth, back and forth, like this was just another morning at the lake house, like nothing had shifted, like no one had snuck into anyone’s room and left without an answer.I set the tray down on the wooden table, careful, like if I moved too fast everything might tip over.“Good,” she said, stopping at the wall right in front of me, water

MIA The water came up to my chest, cold and unrelenting, and every breath felt like it cost something. Jake had me pinned against the pool wall, one hand planted flat on the stone tile beside my head, the other resting heavy and sure on my waist — like the question I’d asked was something he could answer better with his hands than with words. Like my body was easier to handle than the truth. Like he could touch me until I forgot how to ask for more. “Am I for you, Jake?” He looked at me for a long, quiet second, eyes dark and unreadable, like he was weighing every possible answer and finding them all too dangerous to say out loud. Then his hands came up, slow and deliberate, and closed over my breasts through the soaked fabric of my shirt. He squeezed — not gentle, not punishing, just certain, hard enough that my breath broke sharp in my throat, my back arching involuntary into his touch before I could stop it. “How can I love someone who doesn’t love herself?” he whispered ri