Gym Sesh with Noah Beck
NOAH BECK SMUT FANFIC | 18+ ONLY
Pairing: Noah Beck x female reader
Summary: After running into Noah Beck at the gym, he fucks you hard in the gym bathroom giving you a new workout. Warnings: SMUT, rough sex, hair pulling, rough fucking, degrading, p in v, trapped sex, dom and sub, secret fuck
You walk into the Equinox gym locker room, and find an open bench near the mirrors and drop your bag, unzipping it with a quick tug. Inside, the new black shorts are folded neatly beside the sports bra, the fabric still stiff from the store. You peel off your clothes, the air cool against your skin as you shimmy into the shorts, adjusting the waistband with a quick snap.
The mirror catches your reflection as you twist slightly, just enough to admire the subtle curve of your waist, the way your hips taper inward before flaring out again. Three months of lunges and deadlifts had finally started paying off, your ass rounding out in a way that made your shorts cling just right. Progress wasn’t always linear, but today, it felt damn good.
You pop in your AirPods, the familiar thump of your workout playlist drowning out the distant clatter of weights, and pick up your water bottle. Stepping out of the locker room, the gym hums with a different energy than usual, more bodies, more noise, the air thick with the scent of rubber and effort. You weave between clusters of people, your gaze drifting past the treadmills toward the free weights section, where the bench press stations sit. Why was the gym so packed today? You just assumed that it was Equinox being Equinox, the kind of place where people materialized out of nowhere when you least expected them. Shrugging, you adjusted your grip on the dumbbells and focused on the burn in your shoulders.
Then movement flickered at the edge of your vision. Smooth, controlled, deliberate. You turned your head just enough to see him: forearms strong, shoulders broad, the kind of body that made even a simple bicep curl look like performance art. Recognition hits you like a skipped heartbeat.
Noah Beck.
Mid-rep, his biceps swelling under the strain of the weights. His sweat-damp shirt clung to every ridge of his torso, the fabric darkening along the valleys between his abs. He exhaled sharply through his nose, lips parted just enough to reveal a flash of white teeth. Your grip on the dumbbells slackens, the weights tilting dangerously toward your toes before you catch yourself. His compression shirt stretches across his back, highlighting his back muscles and chiseled abs. His hair is still damp from whatever workout came before this one, strands sticking to his forehead in a way that makes your fingers itch to push them back. You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of the way your own sports bra feels too tight.
You’re supposed to be doing lateral raises, but your mind is a mess of static. Three months ago, you’d stumbled across his Instagram, and those shirtless posts of him, and his new movies had you on a chokehold. What was he doing here? And how could you possibly continue your workout in his company?
The dumbbell slips from your grip, and suddenly it's plummeting toward your foot. You lunge, fingers scraping against the textured metal, catching it inches before impact. The sudden movement throws you off balance, and before you can react, the other dumbbell tips from your opposite hand, hitting the rubber mat with a dull, echoing thud. A sharp "Shit!" escapes your lips before you can stop it.
Heat floods your cheeks as you straighten, clutching the rescued weight. That's when you hear it, the soft chuckle from your left. Noah Beck is already bending down, one hand closing around the fallen dumbbell with effortless ease. He straightens, rolling the weight between his fingers before offering it to you, his palm upturned. "You good?"
His voice is lower than you expected, roughened by exertion. You take the dumbbell, fingers brushing against his for a heartbeat too long. "Yeah, I just got distracted." You nod toward the mirror, as if that explains anything, but Noah's gaze doesn't follow. Instead, it lingers on your shoulders, then dips lower, just for a second, before snapping back to your face.
"New set?" He gestures to your shorts with the dumbbell still in his hand, his bicep flexing with the motion. "They fit nice."
Your throat works around nothing for a second. "Uh, yeah. First time wearing them." You adjust your grip on the weights, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of fabric clinging to your thighs. "Guess I was too busy admiring the view to focus on form." The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your eyes widen.
Noah lets out a laugh, loud enough that a guy reracking plates nearby glances over. "Yeah?" He tilts his head, sweat-darkened hair falling into his eyes. "Mirror's right there, and you're looking at me?" He says it like it's a joke, but his gaze doesn't waver from your body.
"You've got good form," Noah says, his voice dropping into something quieter, more intimate despite the clatter of weights around you. He taps the dumbbell in your hand with his knuckles before turning back to his bench press station. Just like that, he's gone, leaving you standing there with your pulse hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape.
You force yourself to lift the weights again, but your focus is shot. Every few reps, your gaze darts sideways, drawn like a magnet to the way Noah’s back muscles flex under his damp shirt as he hoists the barbell. The third time you look over, he’s already watching you, not even pretending otherwise. His eyes lock onto yours, unapologetic, and he doesn’t glance away even when the barbell clangs back into the rack. A slow, knowing smirk curls at the corner of his mouth before he reaches for his water bottle, tipping his head back to drink. You look away first, but not before noticing the way his throat moves when he swallows.
Thirty minutes later, the clatter of Noah’s barbell hitting the rack echoes through the gym as he strips the weights with practiced efficiency. When he grabs his towel and starts walking toward you, your grip tightens around the dumbbell mid-rep, your pulse skipping.
"Arm day?" Noah asks, nodding at the weights in your hands as he stops just inside your personal space. His voice is still rough and deep, the words curling around the edges like he’s fighting a smile.
You exhale sharply, lowering the dumbbell to your thigh. "Yeah. Trying to balance out all the leg days." The words come out steadier than you feel. "What about you? What’s today’s focus?" You tilt your head toward the bench press station he just vacated, but Noah’s gaze doesn’t follow. Instead, his eyes rake over your shoulders.
"Back and chest," he says, dragging a hand through his damp hair. "But I’m done." He shrugs, the motion stretching his shirt across his shoulders. "Unless you want a spot." His fingers tap against his thigh—once, twice—like he’s counting seconds waiting for your answer.
"Sure," you say before you can overthink it, and Noah's grin widens just enough to make your stomach tighten. He steps closer, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his sweat, sharp and masculine under the gym's sterile air, and his fingers graze your elbow as he adjusts your stance. "Here," he murmurs. His palm slides down your forearm, guiding your wrist into alignment, and the warmth of his touch lingers even after he pulls away. "You're twisting too much on the way up. Keep your elbow tucked."
You nod, swallowing hard as you lift the weight again, hyperaware of Noah's gaze tracing the line of your arm. His hand drifts to your shoulder blade this time, pressing lightly to correct your posture. His fingers skim the edge of your sports bra strap, the contact fleeting but electric.
"Better," he says, but he doesn't step back. Instead, he hooks a thumb into the waistband of your shorts, just for a second, to tilt your hips forward. "Engage your core more. It'll help with the strain."
His thumb lingers a heartbeat too long against the waistband of your shorts before he pulls away, leaving a phantom heat where his fingers had been. You adjust your grip on the dumbbell, acutely aware of Noah stepping back, but not far. Close enough that when he shifts his weight, you catch the faint musk of him, sweat and something earthy underneath the sharp tang of gym disinfectant.
His grey shorts cling to his thighs, damp from workout, and when he turns to grab his towel from the bench, the fabric stretches tight across his ass for one glorious second. You bite the inside of your cheek. Progress indeed. Noah wipes the back of his neck with the towel, the motion pulling his shirt up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above his waistband, tan and taut, a faint trail of hair disappearing downward. He catches you looking and grins, slow and knowing, before draping the towel around his shoulders. "So," he says, rolling one shoulder like he’s working out a kink. "Are you always this distracted, or am I special?"
The dumbbell in your hand feels suddenly heavier. "Depends," you say, forcing your gaze up to his face. His eyelashes are damp with sweat, clumped together in a way that makes his eyes seem darker. "You always walk around like you’re carrying extra weight in those shorts, or is that just for me?"
Noah smiles, impressed and taken aback at the boldness of your compliment. He steps closer, and hooks a finger into the waistband of his shorts, tugging them away from his hip just low enough to make your breath hitch. "Nah," he says, voice dropping low, "this is all natural." Your mouth waters.
"You know," he says, tossing his towel onto the bench behind him with a lazy flick of his wrist, "You’ve been staring at my arms for the last ten minutes." He leans in, close enough that his breath fans over your ear. "Wanna see what they can do?"
The question hangs between you, thick as the gym air. Before you can answer, Noah straightens, rolling his shoulders with a groan that makes your thighs press together. "Or," he says, tilting his head toward the treadmills with a smirk, "We could do cardio." The way he says it makes it sound like anything but exercise.
You gasp as Noah’s fingers trace your chin, his touch lingering just long enough to leave your skin humming. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and your knees go weak. "Bathroom," he murmurs, low enough that the word feels like it’s meant just for you. "Five minutes."
Then he’s gone, his towel slung over his shoulder, the muscles in his back shifting under his shirt as he walks away without a backward glance.
The dumbbell slips from your fingers again, but this time, you don’t bother catching it. Five minutes. You glance at the clock above the water fountain, the numbers blurring for a second before snapping into focus. Every second stretches, elastic and unbearable, as you wipe your palms on your shorts and force yourself to rerack the weights.
The gym clock ticks past the five-minute mark with agonizing precision. You wipe your palms against your shorts one last time before heading toward the women's bathroom, your pulse hammering in your throat. The door swings open with a soft creak, revealing an empty expanse of pinkish tile and flickering fluorescent lights. No voices, no footsteps, just the hum of the air conditioning and the faint drip of a leaky faucet.
You hesitate, frowning at the row of empty stalls. Maybe he got held up. Maybe this was some elaborate prank? The thought prickles at the back of your neck until movement catches your eye, the last stall door creaking open just a fraction. Noah emerges, fingers curling in a silent come here gesture. Your breath hitches as you walk in.
The stall door clicks shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach flip. Noah’s hands are already on your hips, fingers digging into the fabric of your shorts as he backs you against the cold tile wall. His mouth crashes into yours before you can gasp—hot, insistent, tasting of mint gum and the faint metallic tang of pre-workout. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, demanding entry, and you open for him with a shudder, your fingers scrambling for purchase against his chest.
His kiss is all teeth and hunger, like he’s been waiting for this since the first time your eyes locked across the weight racks. One hand slides up your side, rough calluses catching on the thin fabric of your sports bra before tangling in your hair. He tilts your head back, deepening the kiss until your lungs burn. Noah groans low in his throat when you nip at his lower lip, his hips jerking forward instinctively. The thick ridge of his cock presses against your stomach, straining against his shorts, and you whimper into his mouth.
"Fuck," Noah growls against your mouth, his voice thick with something darker than amusement now. His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back further as his tongue licks into you again—slow, filthy strokes that mimic exactly what he wants to do elsewhere. "Knew you’d look even better wrecked."
You arch into him, your hips grinding against the hard line of his cock, and Noah lets out a rough chuckle. "Yeah, that’s it," he murmurs, his free hand sliding down to grip your ass through your shorts. He squeezes once, hard, and you whimper, the sound swallowed by his mouth. "These shorts were trouble the second I saw you in them." His thumb hooks into the waistband, dragging the fabric down just enough to expose the curve of your ass to the cool bathroom air. "Gonna have to buy new ones when I rip ’em off you."
Your moan vibrates against his lips just before Noah breaks the kiss. He doesn't ask, just pivots his grip and shoves you downward in one smooth motion, the strength in his arms undeniable as your knees hit the cold tile. The impact stings, but the pain evaporates the second you look up and see him looming over you, his chest rising with ragged breaths, his pupils blown wide. He quickly pulls off his compression shirt, giving you a towering view of his chiseled, big chest, his rock-hard abs, glistening in sweat. His shorts hang at eye level, the fabric tented obscenely where his cock strains against the seam, damp with precum.
"Look at you," Noah murmurs, voice graveled with want as he fists a hand in your hair. His thumb brushes your temple, rough and tender at once. "Exactly where you belong." His free hand palms himself through the fabric, the outline of his cock stark against his thigh, and your mouth waters. The gym's muffled noises feel galaxies away.
Noah's fingers twist in your hair as he drags his shorts down to free his cock which was thick, flushed, and already leaking against his stomach. The veins stand out along the length, and the musky scent of him fills your lungs before he even presses forward.
"Open," he commands, voice rough, and you barely have time to part your lips before he's shoving himself into your mouth, the head bumping against the back of your throat. Your gag reflex kicks in instantly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but Noah doesn't pull back. Just tightens his grip in your hair and exhales sharply through his nose. "Relax your throat," he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek where it stretches around him. "That's it. Just like that."
The taste of him floods your tongue, salty and sweaty as he starts a slow rhythm, letting you adjust. His hips roll forward, and when you swallow around him, he groans, the sound vibrating through your skull where his fingers are tangled in your hair. "Fuck, yeah," he breathes, dragging his cock almost all the way out before pushing back in, deeper this time. "You take it so well." His praise coils hot in your belly, and you moan around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. His free hand finds your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, and the raw hunger in his eyes makes your pulse stutter. "Look at me while you do it."
The bathroom door creaks open and Noah’s hips jerk instinctively, his cock sliding deeper into your throat. Your eyes water as you gag, but his grip tightens in your hair, holding you still. Footsteps echo against the tile, accompanied by the rustle of paper towels being pulled from the dispenser. Noah’s thumb strokes your cheekbone, a silent stay quiet, and you watch his abs flex as he holds his breath. The faucet turns on, water splashing into the sink, and for one paralyzing second, you’re certain the person will glance toward the stalls.
Then Noah moves. Deliberate. Unapologetic. His hips roll forward, pushing himself back into your mouth like the interruption never happened. Your lips stretch around him, spit slicking the shaft as he sets a slow, relentless pace. The water shuts off. The footsteps pause. Your pulse thunders in your ears, but Noah doesn’t stop—just drags his cock almost all the way out, letting you gasp a wet breath before shoving back in, deeper this time. The stall door rattles faintly against its hinges with each thrust, but the sound drowns under the hand dryer’s roar.
The moment the bathroom door clicks shut again, Noah exhales sharply through his nose and loses all restraint. His fingers tighten in your hair like a vice as he starts fucking your mouth in earnest—deep, punishing strokes that leave your jaw aching and your throat convulsing around him. His cock slides over your tongue with slick, filthy sounds, the head bumping against the back of your throat with every thrust. Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unchecked, but Noah doesn’t slow down. "Fuck, look at you," he rasps, hips stuttering. "Taking it like you were made for this."
Noah’s grip shifts, tilting your head back further to expose the fragile line of your throat, and when he shoves in all the way this time, your nose presses flush against the sweat-damp fabric of his shorts. You choke, tears blurring your vision, but the pain melts into something molten when Noah moans above you, his free hand gripping the stall handle so hard his knuckles whiten.
"I was gonna come down your throat," Noah rasps, his voice rough with barely restrained need, "but this is better." He abruptly drags you off his cock with a wet pop. The sudden movement leaves you gasping, but before you can catch your breath, he’s hauling you upright with strength. His mouth crashes into yours, swallowing your whimper as his tongue licks the taste of himself from your lips.
He spins you before you can process it—one hand on your hip, the other sliding up your spine—and your bare shoulders hit the cold tile wall with a jolt. Noah’s fingers find the clasp of your sports bra with practiced ease, the fabric springing loose before you can even register the cool air against your skin. His palms skim up your ribcage, rough calluses catching on your sensitive skin as he cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples with deliberate, maddening pressure. "Fuck," he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his breath hot.
Your moan vibrates against his lips just as his other hand slips down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts with a sharp tug. The fabric rides low on your hips before he shoves his hand beneath it, his knuckles grazing your damp skin as he plunges downward. "Jesus," you gasp, arching into his touch as he circles once, twice, before dipping lower to slide two fingers into you without preamble.
The stretch of his fingers burn—just for a second—before the slick heat of you eases the way. Noah groans against your neck, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin below your ear as his fingers curl inside you, dragging against that spot that makes your vision whiten. "Fuck, you’re tight," he grits out, his hips grinding against your ass as if he can’t help himself. His cock, still wet from your mouth, leaves a sticky trail against the curve of your lower back.
"You gonna scream for me?" His fingers twist inside you before he pulls them out entirely, leaving you clenching around nothing. The wet sound of your own arousal is obscenely loud in the cramped stall. "Or are you gonna be a good girl and keep quiet?"
Before you can answer, he wrenches your arms behind your back, pinning your wrists together with one broad hand. Noah chuckles as his free hand guides the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance with agonizing lightness. "Attagirl.”
Your gasp echoes off the tile as he shoves into you without warning—one brutal thrust that splits you open on him completely. The stretch burns, deliciously rough, and your scream lodges in your throat as his grip tightens on your wrists, his hips snapping forward to bury himself to the hilt. "Fuck," Noah hisses against your shoulder, his body shuddering against yours. "Tighter than I fucking imagined." His breath comes in ragged bursts as he adjusts, the muscles in his forearm flexing where he pins your hands against your spine.
The first drag of his cock out of you is slow—torturous—before he slams back in with enough force to make your knees buckle. Noah catches you effortlessly, his free arm wrapping around your waist as he begins a relentless rhythm, each thrust punching a gasp from your lips. "That’s it," he groans, his mouth skating over your shoulder blade. "Take it."
The bathroom door creaks open again but Noah doesn’t slow. If anything, he drives into you harder, his hips snapping forward with a brutal precision that knocks the breath from your lungs. Your moan spills out unchecked, loud enough to echo, but the intruder just shuffles to the sink, the faucet’s hiss drowning your whimpers. Noah’s palm clamps over your mouth, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he leans in, his breath scalding your ear. "That’s it," he growls, his voice frayed at the edges. "Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you."
Noah’s rhythm turns punishing, each thrust jolting you forward until your forehead presses against the tile, the cold surface doing nothing to dull the fire licking up your spine. His grip on your wrists tightens, his fingers like iron bands as he yanks your arms higher, arching your back until every nerve feels exposed. "Look at you," he pants, his voice raw. "Perfect fucking form."
His free hand slides up your sweat-slicked spine, pressing between your shoulder blades to pin you even flatter against the wall. "Arch deeper." The command vibrates through you, and you obey instinctively, your body bending to his will like you were made for it. His groan is guttural, approving, as he adjusts his angle and drives into you so deep you see stars.
Time blurs, minutes or hours, you can’t tell, but Noah’s pace never falters. The slap of skin, the wet sounds of him fucking into you, the way your breath comes in ragged, broken gasps—it all melts into a dizzying haze of sensation. His thumb finds your clit, rough and unrelenting, and your vision whites out for a second as pleasure crests, sharp and unbearable. "Noah—" you choke out, but he cuts you off with a sharp thrust, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.
"Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name. Gonna keep thinking about this dick for days." The bathroom door swings open again—voices this time, laughter—but Noah just tightens his hold on you and fucks you through it, his rhythm never breaking. The newcomers don’t linger, their footsteps retreating as quickly as they came, but the near-miss sends a jolt of adrenaline straight to your core. Noah feels it too; his breath hitches, his hips stuttering as he drags you back against his chest, his cock buried to the hilt. "Fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it," he rasps, his voice wrecked. His teeth scrape your neck, his breath hot and uneven as his grip on your wrists loosens just enough to slide his hand down, his fingers interlacing with yours. The shift in angle is slight, but it’s enough—his next thrust brushes that perfect spot inside you, and suddenly you’re coming undone, your body clamping around him like a vice.
Your climax hits like a freight train, body locking, vision whiting out as Noah groans your name against the sweat-slick curve of your shoulder. His hips jerk erratically, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he comes with a ragged curse. The heat of his release floods you in thick, pulsing waves, so much that you feel it leaking down your thighs even as he stays buried to the hilt, his body shuddering against yours like a live wire. His hot, thick, cum floods you and fills you up, leaving you quivering and fulfilled in his big arms.
For one suspended moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your mingled panting and the slick slide of his softening cock inside you. Then Noah exhales—a long, wrecked sound—and presses his forehead between your shoulder blades, his lips brushing your spine in something too tender for the wreckage of the stall around you. "Fuck," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, his breath tickling the damp hairs at your nape. "That was—" His sentence fractures when you shift slightly, hissing at the oversensitive friction, and he chuckles, the vibration traveling through your back where his chest presses against you. "Yeah. That."
Noah doesn’t pull out immediately. His hands slide around your waist instead, thumbs pressing into the dip above your hip bones as he keeps you pinned against him, his cock still buried deep. The silence between you is thick with the weight of what just happened, broken only by the distant clang of weights from the gym beyond the bathroom walls.
His fingers trace idle patterns over your stomach, calluses scraping lightly against sweat-damp skin, before dipping lower to where you’re still joined. You gasp when he swipes through the mess leaking from you, his touch achingly slow, then hums approvingly as he brings his fingers to his mouth. The wet sound of him sucking them clean sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core, your thighs trembling involuntarily. “Even better than I imagined.”
Noah finally pulls out with a soft groan, his hands steadying you when your knees wobble. His grip is firm, almost possessive, as he turns you to face him, his eyes dark with something unreadable as they rake over your flushed skin, your kiss-swollen lips. He doesn’t say anything—just reaches for your discarded sports bra with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse stutter. His fingers brush your ribs as he helps you into it, the touch lingering a second too long when he fastens the clasp.
The shorts are next. Noah kneels in front of you, his shoulders blocking out the rest of the stall as he carefully tugs the fabric up your thighs. His thumbs skim the inside of your knees, then higher, tracing the sensitive skin just below the hem before smoothing the shorts into place. His gaze flickers up to yours, heavy-lidded and satisfied, and you swallow hard at the way he looks at you—like he’s memorizing every detail.
Noah’s kiss is slow this time—almost sweet—his lips lingering against yours like he’s savoring the taste of you. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your bottom lip, swollen from his teeth, before he delivers a sharp smack to your ass that makes you yelp. The sound bounces off the stall walls, and his grin turns wolfish as he leans in, his voice a rough whisper against your ear.
"Still think about those leg days, huh?" His fingers dig into the curve of your hip, possessive even now. "Meet me tomorrow. Same time. I’ll spot you." The promise in his tone isn’t about weights.
The stall door creaks when he pushes it open, the sound startlingly loud after the muffled heat of the last however-many minutes. Cool air rushes in, raising the fine hairs on your arms as Noah glances over his shoulder one last time. "And hydrate," he adds, his voice dropping to that rough, private register. "You're gonna need it."
.......
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed and request some smuts in the comments! :)
