No hesitation. No theatrics. Pure skin and confidence and the kind of casual bravery that makes mycontrol fracture along hairline cracks. He steps into the panties slowly, deliberately, pulling them up over strong thighs and hips as though he’s daring me to say something.
Daring me tolook.
I do.
Fuck me.
Maldita sea.
My jaw locks so hard it aches. Heat slams low and vicious, sharp enough to make my hands curl at my sides as I physically restrain myself.
“You’re pushing it,” I say.
“Am I?” Luke straightens, finally meeting my eyes. “You didn’t say stop.”
That’s the problem. I didn’t.
The locker room hums around us—vents rattling softly, distant footsteps somewhere down the hall—but all I can see is him. Bare skin. Red lace cupping his cock. That infuriating calm he has.
“This ends now,” I say, because it has to. Because if it doesn’t, I’m going to cross a line I can’t uncross. And it was one thing before we both knew. Now it would just be irresponsible.
Luke tilts his head, studying me. I know he sees how serious I am.
“Then you should probably lock up,” he says lightly. “Before someone sees.”
He grabs his clothes, finally—finally—and turns away, giving me his back like he trusts I won’t touch him. I can’t help it.
My eyes drop.
Fuck.
The lace disappears between the curve of his ass like itwas made for him, clinging in all the ways that make my mouth go dry and my cock twitch, hard and heavy against the inside of my thigh.
He bends slightly to grab his shirt, and that’s it.
That’s the last thread of control.
It snaps.
I cross the space between us before I can think better of it, one hand bracing the locker above his head as I crowd in, close enough that his back brushes my chest as he straightens.
Luke stills.
“You think this is a game?” I ask, voice low, harsh, right at his ear.
“I think,” he says, breath steady, “you’ve been playing it longer than I have so you would know, wouldn’t you, Coach.”
My other hand lands on his hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He gasps—quiet, involuntary—but doesn’t move away or tell me to stop.
I slide my palm over that lace, down between his legs, letting it press against my hand. He’s hard. Fuckingachingfor it.
I exhale through my nose, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. “You put this on for me.”
Luke tips his head back against my shoulder. “You think I wear red lace for just anyone?”
I growl—actual, low and guttural—and shove the locker door shut with a slam, caging him in completely.
“You’re a fucking menace.”
