I am not this kind of woman.
I don't have casual sex. I've had three boyfriends and slept with all of them only after months of dating, and even then it was fine, it was nice, it was the thing you do when you're in a relationship and it feels like the next logical step. I have never looked at a man and wanted him to fuck me within thirty minutes of meeting him.
But I'm looking at one now.
And I don't just want him to fuck me.
I want him to ruin me.
The word comes into my head fully formed, and I feel my face go hot. *Ruin*. That's what I want. I want this enormous, terrifying man with his scarred knuckles and his dark eyes and his voice like gravel to put his hands on me and take me apart, and I would let him, I would let him do absolutely anything he wanted, and I have clearly lost my mind.
"Chloe."
My name. He's saying my name. His voice is louder now, definitely louder, like it's not the first time he's said it.
"Yes," I say quickly. Too quickly. "Yes. Sorry. I'm listening."
He looks at me for a long moment. His eyes are so dark they're almost black in this light, and I cannot read his expression at all. He could be annoyed. He could be confused. He has absolutely no idea that I'm standing here fully dressed and soaking wet thinking about what it would feel like to have him between my legs.
God, at least I hope he has no idea.
"We're going to run through it again," he says. "Feet. Hips. Shoulders. I want you to feel the whole sequence. Feel how your body connects."
"Okay," I say.
He walks me through it. Feet shoulder-width apart, right foot angled slightly out, weight shifting onto the balls of my feet, hips angled, shoulders down. I follow his instructions, trying desperately to focus on what he's teaching me, because I paid for this lesson, because I came here for a reason, because I have an actual legitimate need to learn how to defend myself.
But all I can think about is his hands.
They're so much bigger than my face. I noticed that immediately. When I was standing at the front desk looking up at him, my first coherent thought after *oh my god he's terrifying* was *his hands could cover my entire face*. I could measure my head from chin to forehead and his palm would span it completely. And now I can't stop thinking about what that would feel like. What it would feel like to have those hands on my throat. On my wrists. Pinning me down.
"Better," he says.
I have no idea what I just did that was better. I'm just standing here trying not to visibly pant.
"Now I want you to practice moving from this stance," he continues. "Step forward with your right foot, bring your left up to match. Keep your base. Don't let your feet come together. Try it."
I try it. I step forward. I apparently do it wrong, because he steps in again.
"May I," he says.
It's not really a question. It's the same thing he said before, that warning, that single beat of time where I can say no. I should say no. I should absolutely say no, because if he touches meagain, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to keep standing here pretending to be a normal person learning a normal skill.
"Yes," I say.
His hand settles on my lower back this time.
I stop breathing.
He's adjusting my posture. That's all he's doing. His palm is pressed against my spine, broad and warm even through my sweatshirt, and he's guiding me forward into the next step, showing me how to move without losing my foundation. It's instruction. It's completely professional. It's the exact same thing he would do with any student.
And I am drowning in how badly I want him.
The thought comes so clear and so strong that I'm genuinely afraid I said it out loud. *I want you*. I want you to stop being professional. I want you to stop teaching me. I want you to push me down onto this mat and put your hands anywhere you want them and I will not stop you, I will not say no, I will say yes to anything you want.
"Good," he says, and steps back.
The absence of his hand feels like loss.
