He's hard.
My self-defense instructor, this enormous, terrifying man who beats people unconscious for money, has been rock-hard and pressing against me while teaching me how to escape from a rear attack, and I have no idea what to do with that information except that it's making me so wet I'm genuinely concerned about leaving a visible spot on these leggings when I stand up.
Every single time his arms came around me, I felt it. Thick and solid and pressing against my lower back, and I went still because my body didn't know how to process the combination of fear and arousal and complete overwhelming want that came with that sensation. My first instinct, my immediate, visceral, completely insane first instinct, was to push back against it. To rub my ass against his cock and find out what sound he'd make, whether he'd grab me harder or push me away or do something else entirely.
I wanted to turn around and drop to my knees.
I wanted to tell him I'd help him with that.
I wanted to offer him my mouth, my hands, anything he wanted, right here on this mat in the middle of the afternoon with the gym door unlocked and anyone able to walk in.
And now we're sitting here having a completely different conversation, and I can see sweat dripping down his forehead, down the sides of his face, down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his shirt. I can see it on his forearms where his sleeves are pushed up, gleaming on his skin, and I want to taste it. I want to know what he tastes like, what his skin feels like under my tongue, whether he'd let me explore him the way my body is screaming at me to do.
But instead, I just told him about my ex.
I never tell anyone about my ex. Not the full truth anyway. Sarah knows some of it, knows that he won't leave me alone, but I've downplayed how bad it is because I don't want her to worry. My parents definitely don't know because they'd just tell me it's my own fault for trusting someone in the first place, for thinking I was ready for a relationship when clearly I wasn't.
But I told Cole. He listened, and I feel safer knowing that he knows. That this man... This enormous, dangerous, capable manwho could break my ex in half without breaking a sweat knows what I'm dealing with and has decided I'm worth protecting. Even if that protection only extends to teaching me how to protect myself, it's more than anyone else has offered.
"Thank you," I say.
He nods. Doesn't say *you're welcome* or *it's nothing* or any of the polite deflections people usually offer. Just nods like it's already decided, already done.
"He knows where you live, right?”
"Yes. I moved after we broke up, but he found the new place within a week."
"He ever threaten you directly?"
"No. That's the problem. He's careful. He never says anything that would hold up as a threat. He just... shows up. Texts things like 'saw you at the store today, you looked pretty.' Things that sound almost normal if you don't know the context."
"Does he know you're taking these lessons?" he asks.
"I don't think so. I haven't told anyone except Sarah, and she wouldn't tell him. But I don't know how he finds out things, so..." I trail off, shrugging helplessly.
"If he shows up here," Cole says, and his voice has gone very quiet, very level, "you tell me immediately."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Chloe. The second you see him anywhere near this gym, you find me."
"I will. I promise"
"Good."
He's still looking at me, those dark eyes locked on mine, and I feel pinned by the weight of his attention. Not scared. Not uncomfortable. Just... seen. Like he's cataloging every detail, filing it away, building some kind of profile in his head.
"There's another fight Friday night," he says suddenly.
"Here?"
"Yeah."
"Are you fighting?"
"Yeah."
"Who?"
