Hot ropes of come paint my skin. Thick, and white, and obscene across my exposed stomach. Hitting the underside of my sports bra. Spattering across my ribs and chest.
One particularly strong pulse arcs higher—landing on my chin.
Oh god.
I'm marked. Completely. Undeniably.
Still trembling from my orgasm, still locked in the stirrups with my legs spread wide, covered in his release like some kind of depraved art installation.
I just lie there, chest heaving, pussy still clenching around nothing, his come cooling on my skin as my brain slowly comes back online.
Ryan recovers first. His breathing evening out while mine still comes in ragged gasps. He leans forward, one hand bracing against the table beside my head, and kisses me. Not brutal this time. Gentle and tender.
When he pulls back, there's a wicked grin spreading across his face.
"Dirtiest little fucking button ever," he murmurs against my lips.
The nickname is cute. I like it. I like…him.
We stay like that for a long moment—him leaning over me, both of us catching our breath, the evidence of what we just did cooling between us.
Then Ryan straightens, adjusting his joggers and pulling them back up over his hips like what just happened was casual.Normal. Something that happens in the back room of his gym every day.
Maybe it does.
Don't think about that.
He walks to a cabinet against the far wall—the kind meant for supplies or equipment—and opens it. Inside, instead of weights or resistance bands, there's merchandise. Iron River Fitness t-shirts and shorts in various sizes, all neatly folded and organized.
He selects a black t-shirt and matching bike shorts, glances at me still spread open on the table, then returns to me with an offering. His satisfaction barely disguised as apology. "Sorry about your clothes," he says, reaching for the stirrup releases.
I'm not.
The restraints pop open and my legs drop—heavy, trembling, completely useless. I don't trust myself to stand yet. Don't trust my body to do anything except continue lying here like a used, thoroughly fucked disaster.
But I sit up so I can change. Ryan watches as I peel off my sports bra—also splattered with his cum—and pull the fresh shirt over my head.
I shimmy into the bike shorts next, my movements clumsy and uncoordinated as sensation slowly returns to my limbs.
When I'm finally decent—or as decent as someone can be after getting fucked raw on an examination table—Ryan leans in again.
This kiss is different. Slower. More deliberate.
Like he's tasting me. Memorizing me.
"Come back tomorrow morning," he murmurs against my lips. "Five AM. We'll go another round." He pulls back from the kiss just enough to meet my eyes. "This time I'll be prepared."
I cannot contain my smile.
He kisses me one more time—quick and claiming—then straightens and walks toward the door.
He doesn't look back. Doesn't wait to see if I need help getting off the table or finding my way out.
Just leaves.
Savor this. Remember every second. You're finally getting what you've been dying for.
So I do…
