My teeth find her lower lip.
The contact is deliberate. Measured. I catch the plush fullness of her bottom lip between my teeth and pull with a slowness that is designed to dismantle her composure one millimeter at a time. The tug is gentle enough to avoid pain and firm enough to register as a claim, my mouth performing an act of possession on the specific piece of her anatomy that has been driving me to distraction since she bit it in front of me on her bed and my brain lost its lease on rational thought.
She does not pull away.
Her breath hitches against my cheek. Her body goes rigid against the locker, every muscle tensing with the competing impulses of a woman who wants to close the distance and a competitor who refuses to yield the ground.
Neither of us breaks the contact.
I can feel her pulse through the tissue of her lip, the rapid drumbeat of her heart transmitted through the thin skin caught between my teeth. Her scent spikes. The cherry blossom blooms through the peppermint and the grass with an urgency that my hindbrain intercepts and catalogues undershe wants youwith a certainty that makes my cock strain against my compression tights with an insistence that borders on architectural failure.
I release her lip.
Slowly. Letting the tissue slide from between my teeth at a pace that ensures she feels every fraction of the separation.
Then I lean in again. Lips at her ear. Voice dropped to a frequency that exists solely for her.
"You'd totally be an exception." The words arrive on a breath that ghosts across the shell of her ear and down the column of her neck. "But until I can see you wearing a jersey, I doubt I'll get to enjoy those pretty defiant lips of yours."
I pull back.
It requires more willpower than any save I made in the crease today. More discipline than eighteen months of kickboxing training instilled. More restraint than I knew I possessed, because every cell in my body is voting unanimously to press her against this locker and discover exactly what sounds she makes when the bickering stops and the contact begins.
Her face is crimson. A shade of red so total it extends from her hairline to the collar of her t-shirt, painting her freckles into invisible beneath the flush. Her green eyes are blazing with a combination of arousal and fury and the specific, corrosivefrustration of a woman who has just been issued a condition she cannot meet and a promise she cannot collect.
She huffs.
"Well, it's never going to happen if I don't find a damn pack." She pushes off the locker, the movement carrying her past me with the determined momentum of someone exiting a situation before it escalates past the point of return. "So keep jerking off to the fantasy."
She stomps toward the exit.
Each footfall striking the tile with the emphatic force of a woman making a point through percussion. Her sneakers squeak. Her damp hair swings. My tank, still clutched in her fist, trails behind her like a surrender flag carried by the winning side.
I watch her leave.
Watch the rigid set of her shoulders. The aggressive stride. The way her body moves through space like it is daring the air to get in her way. The corridor swallows her in increments, the fluorescent light catching her navy hair and the wet fabric of her t-shirt and the clenched determination of her fists until the distance converts her from a person into a silhouette and the silhouette into a memory.
Pack.
She needs a pack to play.
Without one, the jersey stays hypothetical and so does everything I just whispered against her neck.
I lean my forehead against the cool metal of the locker, letting the surface absorb the heat that is radiating from my skin with the steady, persistent output of a body that has been operating above its thermal limit for the better part of an hour.
She just left my imagination on overdrive.
The taste of her lip. The hitch in her breath. The way her scent bloomed when I bit her, cherry blossom detonatingthrough her pheromone profile like a signal flare announcing that her body wanted what her words denied.
And she walked away.
Told me to keep jerking off to the fantasy.
Which implies she knows I have been.
Which implies she has been thinking about me thinking about her.
Which implies.
