I register it before I can stop it, before I can route it somewhere else or shut it down or do any of the things I would absolutely be doing if I had any warning whatsoever. My hands settle on her hips, and my cock thickens before I've finished the thought, filling and hardening with a speed that is completely beyond my ability to negotiate with.
I adjust her angle in approximately one and a half seconds and step back.
Put distance between us. Reasonable instructional distance. I keep my face neutral because my face is something I have mastered over years of necessity, because a face that shows what's happening inside is a liability I cannot afford, and I amdeeply, profoundly grateful for every single hour of that practice right now.
"That's the angle," I say. My voice comes out even. I'm unreasonably proud of this. "Feel that? Your weight distributes differently now. You're harder to move."
I thank every god I've stopped believing in that she's facing forward, because I am hard, fully, embarrassingly, throbbing hard, pressing against the inside of my training shorts in a way that is not remotely concealable if she turns around, and I cannot remember the last time my body did this, cannot remember the last time I let anything close enough to cause it.
"Shift your weight forward slightly. Onto the balls of your feet. You want to be ready to move, not planted." I tell her.
I have taught women half her size and twice her age. I have taught women who were objectively beautiful by any conventional measure, who flirted openly, who wore things specifically designed to be noticed, and my body remained entirely professional and entirely uninterested, because I am not a man who does this, because I shut this part of myself down so thoroughly and so long ago that I had essentially stopped believing it still functioned.
I have not been with anyone in so fucking long. I do not count the years anymore because the number stopped being useful information.
And now I'm standing six feet away from a small woman in a zip-up sweatshirt who can't yet throw a punch, and I am deeply grateful that her eyes are on the mirror and not on me.
I need to keep it that way.
Chapter 2 - Chloe
I'm soaking wet.
Not metaphorically. Not a little bit. I am genuinely, physically wet between my legs, my panties clinging to me in a way that makes me desperately grateful I wore black leggings today because anything else would show it, would betray exactly what happened the moment his hands touched my hips.
His big hands.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, pretending to focus on my stance, pretending I'm absorbing whatever he's saying about weight distribution and foundation, but all I can think about is how his palms felt against my body. How completely they covered the span of my hips. How easily he moved me, like I weighed nothing, like adjusting my position was the most natural thing in the world.
I have never been this turned on in my entire life.
Not with my ex. Not during the three years we were together, not even in the beginning when things were supposedly good. Not with the two boyfriends before him. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my apartment when I actually had the energy and inclination to try.
Nothing has ever made my body react like this.
And it's been less than thirty minutes since I walked through the door.
"—your shoulders."
I blink. He's talking. He's been talking. I have absolutely no idea what he just said.
"Sorry?" My voice comes out higher than I intend. I clear my throat. "Sorry, could you repeat that?"
He's standing several feet away now, arms crossed over his chest, and even that, even the way he's just standing there, does something to me that I don't have vocabulary for. He's enormous. I knew that from the moment I saw him behind the desk, but having him this close, in this space, with no one else around, the reality of his size is almost overwhelming. He's easily a foot taller than me. Maybe more. His shoulders are so broad they make the training area feel smaller. And his arms, crossed like that, the tattoos dark against his skin, the muscles shifting even in that casual stance—
"Your shoulders," he repeats, and there's something in his voice now. Not impatience exactly, but a slight edge. Like he's realized I haven't been listening. "You're holding tension in them. You need to drop them down. Tension in your shoulders means tension through your whole body. You want to be ready, not rigid."
"Right," I say. "Okay. Drop my shoulders."
I try to do what he says. I genuinely try. But my brain is not cooperating, because my brain is currently occupied with the truly deranged thought that I want him to grab me.
Not guide me. Not adjust my form.
Grab me.
I want him to put those massive hands on my body again and this time not let go. I want him to toss me down onto this mat like I'm nothing, like he could break me in half without effort, and I want to offer him everything. Right here. Right now. On the floor of this gym with the door unlocked and daylight coming through the windows.
I have never had a thought like this before in my life.
