Colton leans on a bench press, arms crossed. He’s watching me in the mirror, not bothering to hide it. His eyes are black, pupils blown so wide they almost erase the color. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink. I can’t decide if that’s better or worse than him laughing at me.
I turn away, dump the rest of my water over my wrists to cool down. It doesn’t help.
I grab a mat, take it to the farthest corner, and sink to the floor for stretches. I try to breathe slow, but my heart is frantic. Every time I glance up, he’s there. His reflection multiplies in every mirror, so it feels like there are a thousand of him, a thousand sets of eyes crawling over my skin.
When I’m done, I stay facing the wall, fumbling for my water bottle and force a sip, but my hands are useless. The cap drops, rolls away, and I curse under my breath.
When I look up, he’s standing right in front of me.
He’s taller than I remember, but maybe that’s just how he stands, shoulders squared, eyes hard and unreadable. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me like I’m a problem and somehow a solution at the same time.
I back up a step, but the wall is right behind me. “What do you want?”
His voice is soft, almost kind. “You know what I want.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that every cell in my body goes on high alert, that I can feel my pulse between my legs, my skin sparking like static. I hate that I want anything from him at all.
He moves closer, pinning me between the wall and his chest. I smell sweat, soap, the iron tang of blood from where he probably ripped a callus on the pull-up bar.
“Let me go,” I whisper, but it’s weak, even to my ears.
He shakes his head once. “No. Not tonight.”
I think about screaming. I think about kneeing him in the balls. But I don’t. I just stand there, paralyzed by how badly I want tobe anywhere but here, and how badly I want to know what he’ll do next.
His hand comes up, fingers curling around my jaw. He tilts my face up, studies my mouth, then brushes a thumb over my lower lip. It’s not rough. It’s not gentle either. It’s just… possession.
“Poor scholarship girl,” he murmurs, like it’s a joke only we get. “Still running?”
He slides his hand down my neck, over the damp cotton of my shirt, and settles at my hip. He grips, tight, pulls me flush against him so I can feel every inch of muscle, every intention. His other hand finds my wrist, holds it soft at first, then he squeezes tight.
He backs me into the nearest bench, forces me to sit. I try to squirm away but he’s already got me pinned, one hand on my shoulder, the other sliding down, down—
He slips his fingers into the waistband of my leggings and I gasp. He’s strong enough to drag me wherever he wants. I can’t fight it, not really, and maybe he knows that.
He pushes me down so my back arches over the bench, ass barely on the edge, feet dangling above the mat. The room is cold, the bench colder, metal pressing up through the thin fabric. I try to close my legs but he just shoves my knees apart, unbothered by my resistance.
“Stop,” I say, but the word doesn’t even sound real.
He ignores it. “Say you want me to.”
I shake my head, stray hair stuck to my cheek in sweaty ropes. I want to spit in his face, but all I can do is shiver.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice even, calm. “Convince me.”
I can’t. I won’t. Because part of me doesn’t want him to. Part of me wants this more than air. I want tofeelagain. It’s beenso Goddamn longsince I’ve felt this alive.
He pulls my leggings down in one smooth motion. I hear the fabric rip, the elastic snap. My underwear is next, yanked halfway down my thighs. The rush of cold air makes me clench, makes me want to hide, but there’s no hiding from him.
He kneels in front of the bench, grabs my ankles, and pushes my legs even wider. I see the look in his eyes. There’s nothing but hunger.
He traces his fingers up the inside of my thigh, slow, almost teasing. My body betrays me, heat pooling where I want it least. He feels it, knows it, and grins.
“You’re soaked,” he says, almost a laugh. “All that running. Is this what you needed? To run from me and end up falling anyway?”
He slides two fingers inside me, no warning, no apology. My back bows off the bench and I bite down on a scream, but it escapes anyway, a raw, desperate sound.
He pumps slow, then fast, then slow again, watching my face the whole time. I clench around him, try to fight it, but my body is greedy, slick, eager.
