“I am literally on a treatment table.”
“Good observation.”
“Where are we going?”
“Corner.”
“That sounded ominous.”
“It’s strategic.”
I should not have taken his hand.
I did.
He helped me down carefully, one hand firm at my waist when my balance wobbled. Then he led me the short distance to the shadowed corner near the equipment shelves where extra foam rollers, towels, and bands were stacked.
It was not private.
Not really.
But it felt private, which was apparently all my body required to make poor decisions.
Drew backed me gently against the wall.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Rule compliance.”
My heart kicked. “Drew.”
“People are watching.”
“People are always watching.”
“Exactly.”
Then he kissed me.
Not like the training room kiss.
That one had been a bomb.
This was slower. Smaller. His hand slid along my jaw, thumb resting just below my cheekbone, and his mouth touched mine like he had all the time in the world to make a lie convincing.
I told myself to stay stiff.
For strategy.
For boundaries.
For New Year’s Eve and clean breaks and not falling in love with the most impossible man on campus.
Then his mouth moved against mine, and I forgot every rule I had ever made.
My fingers caught the front of his hoodie.
He made a low sound against my lips.
