Instinct takes over. I lean into his palm without meaning to, the heat of his scarred skin burning into my cheek, old muscle memory crashing into me like a punch.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low enough to bruise, “I’ll help you. Repeat after me.”
My eyes drop to his mouth as he traces my lips with his thumb, coaxing the words out of me. He shapes the word slowly, deliberately.
“P—Please.” It slips out of me.
Did I just fucking say that out loud?
His smile is slow and vicious.
“Please who?” his brows lift.
I hate him.
My dignity is long gone anyway.
Fuck this.
“Please, Kasien,” I whisper, shutting my eyes, defeated.
He inhales like he just won a trophy.
Before I can second-guess anything, his hands hook under my knees and he lifts me clean off the floor. I gasp, grabbing his shoulders for balance as he carries me like I weigh nothing.
In one smooth movement, he steps over the bench press setup, sits down, and lowers me onto the cold leather bench beneath him. He reaches up, grabs the barbell loaded with what has to be over two hundred pounds, and racks it on the lower hooks. So close to my neck the metal nearly touches my skin, trapping me in place.
Panic prickles under my ribs and I instinctively try to push it up, which is of course a pathetic attempt that only makes him smile more.
He stays straddling the bench, my legs draped over his thighs, his head tilted, watching me struggle under the weight like it’s his new favorite movie.
After a while, I stop fighting and force myself to breathe.
His fingers slide under the straps of my sports bra and he drags them off my shoulders, down my arms, down my ribs. He doesn’t pause. He just catches the waistband of my leggings together with the thin underwear beneath in the same grip and slices everything down my body in one motion, shifting back to pull the clothes off my feet.
The whole pile of clothes hits the floor.
And I’m suddenly, completely naked.
My thighs snap shut on instinct. Being naked and pinned in place under that bar has every nerve in my body glitching. I’m nervous, yes, but more than anything, I’m starving.
Six fucking years without him.
Six years wanting a touch I pretended I didn’t miss.
He wraps his hands around my ankles, that familiar, electric touch that shoots butterflies straight into my core, and guides my legs apart with force I cannot fight, settling them against his hips.
He holds me open, keeps me there, and just looks.
Predatory. Focused.
His stare alone burns straight through my spine and makes my whole body tremble. I swear I could cum just from the way his eyes drag over me. My clit is throbbing so hard it borders on painful, but I keep my hands flat beside me, refusing to give in first.
His gaze runs from my chest, down my stomach, slow and hungry. As if he’s remembering. Or as if he’s taking in the new me, the six years older me.
Then he tips his head back and inhales, like he’s trying to steady himself. Or like sensing me is too much.
He drops my ankles and reaches up, unfastening the loosened tie at his neck. He pulls it off with one hand and lets it fall to the floor. Then he’s back on me, palms on my knees, lowering himself toward my core. His lips touch the inside of my knee.
