Perfect Form II

"Now lie down," he breathed, his voice a low growl against her skin, still slick from her climax. "Let me taste you properly."

Her knees felt like water. Taste me? After… that? The words, the sheer fucking nerve of him, sent another jolt, hotter and sharper, through her already sensitized body. She could only nod, a shaky, jerky movement, letting him guide her by the elbow towards the long, padded bench in the middle of the empty locker room.

Just as her ass brushed the cool vinyl, a loud clang echoed from the corridor outside the locker room door, followed by indistinct male voices.

"Shit," Ethan hissed, spinning towards the door, his whole body instantly tense, alert. He was no longer the possessive lover but a predator scenting danger. "Someone's coming."

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed up Chloe’s throat. "Oh god." Her eyes darted around. The bench was out in the open. They were trapped.

"Dress. Quick." His voice was a blade, slicing through her daze. He snatched up her discarded top from the floor, shoving it at her. His eyes, moments before dark with lust, were now narrowed, calculative.

Her fingers fumbled with the damp fabric, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Caught. We're going to get caught. The thought was mortifying. She pulled the top on, the movement clumsy. He was already scanning the room, his head turning, his gaze sharp.

"Leggings," he snapped, kicking them towards her with his foot.

As she was hopping, trying to pull them up over her still-trembling thighs, he grabbed her arm. "This way." He half-dragged her towards a dark corner where a stack of folded yoga mats and foam rollers were piled messily next to a tall, narrow cleaning supplies cupboard. "In here." He wrenched open the cupboard door. It was barely wide enough for one person, smelling faintly of disinfectant and old rags.

"Are you crazy?" she whispered, balking.

"Get in. Now." No room for argument. He pushed her firmly from behind, forcing her into the cramped space. It was dark. She banged her elbow. Before she could even straighten, he was crowding in after her, pulling the door almost shut, leaving just a sliver of dim light from the locker room.

The space was impossibly tight. Her back was pressed against mops and brooms, their handles digging into her. His body was a hard, hot wall in front of her, chest to chest, his hips grinding against hers with every slight movement. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart against her own, smell the clean laundry detergent, the lingering scent of sex, and his sweat, sharp and male.

"Quiet," he breathed, his lips brushing her ear. The fine hairs on her neck stood on end.

Outside, the voices grew louder. Two men, by the sound of it. Laughing. They were in the locker room now. The distinctive squeak of trainers on the tiled floor. Fuck fuck fuck. Chloe held her breath, trying to make herself smaller, flatter against the cleaning supplies.

Ethan's hand came up, settling low on her back, pressing her impossibly closer. She could feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal, thick and hard against her belly through their layers of clothes. Even now? How? The thought was a confusing jolt. His other hand snaked around her waist, fingers splaying possessively over her hip.

"Don't move," he whispered, his breath warm on her temple.

The men outside were talking about their workout, their voices echoing slightly. One of them opened a locker, the metal door creaking loudly. Chloe’s muscles screamed with tension. Any second now, one of them could decide to get something from this exact cupboard.

Ethan’s head was bent close to hers, his forehead almost touching. She could see the pulse throbbing in his neck, the way his jaw was clenched. His eyes were fixed on the thin crack of light from the door. He was so focused. Intense. It was almost scary. And undeniably hot.

The tension stretched, thin and vibrating. It was different from before – now fear was a sharp, icy counterpoint to the lingering heat between them. Yet, perversely, the danger, their enforced intimacy, the raw animal scent of him, it was all doing something to her. Coiling low in her belly.

His lips found hers in the darkness. Not gentle. Urgent. Hungry. His mouth slanted over hers, a silent claim in the stifling air. Oh god, what is he doing? He tasted of her, of himself, of adrenaline. His tongue swept in, demanding. She couldn’t stop the small, helpless sound that escaped her throat, muffled against his mouth.

His hand at her hip slid down, over the curve of her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh through her leggings. He pulled her even tighter, grinding his erection against her. Mmm…Why is this so exciting?… Despite the fear, her body arched into his, a betraying instinct.

Then, his fingers were at the waistband of her leggings, working them down.

"Ethan…" she breathed against his lips, a protest, a question, a plea.

"Shhh," he murmured, his mouth moving to her jaw, then her neck, nipping lightly. Ah... fuck... The sound of the men outside faded, replaced by the roaring in her own ears. His fingers, those clever, damnably knowing fingers, found their way under the fabric of her panties, slick against her already damp folds.

No. Yes.

He didn't bother with one finger this time. Two slid inside her, hard and fast. She gasped, arching violently, her head thudding softly against the cupboard wall. He smothered the sound with his mouth, kissing her deeply, possessively, his tongue duelling with hers, while his fingers… oh god, his fingers… they moved with a brutal rhythm, a directness that stole her breath. He knew exactly where to press, how to curl them. Fuck.

One of the men outside laughed, a loud, booming sound. Startlingly close.

Ethan froze for a fraction of a second, his fingers stilled deep inside her. Then, as if the proximity of discovery only fueled him, his thumb found her clit through the thin cotton of her panties and pressed down, hard, while his fingers resumed their relentless fucking. He bit her lower lip, not gently, his hips grinding against hers in a punishing rhythm.

Fuck... he's... oh god... I can't...

She was going to come. Right here. Pressed against cleaning supplies, with men just feet away. The thought was insane. Terrifying. And unbelievably, shatteringly hot. Her moans were trapped in her throat, swallowed by his devouring kisses. Her body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming. His fingers... mmm... his thumb... she was going to break...

"Ethan... please..." she whimpered, a desperate, broken sound against his mouth.

His fingers dug deeper, faster. His thumb was a merciless engine. "Come for me, Chloe," he growled, his voice a raw whisper against her ear, his hips slamming against hers. "Now."

The moment he told her exactly what he wanted her to do. Just like he made her feel when he told her how to perfect her form. She did. Her orgasm ripped through her, silent and violent, her body clenching and spasming around his invading fingers. She bit down on her own lip to keep from crying out, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. He held her tight, his body rigid against hers, feeling every single tremor, his own breath coming in harsh gasps against her hair.

The men outside started moving towards the exit, their voices fading. "See you tomorrow, mate." A door slammed.

Silence. Blessed, echoing silence.

Ethan slowly, reluctantly, withdrew his fingers. The slick sound was loud in the small, dark space. He kept her pinned there for another long moment, his body still pressed hard against hers, his forehead resting on hers. Both of them were breathing raggedly.

"Fuck," he finally rasped, his voice hoarse. He eased back slightly, just enough for her to take a full breath.

She sagged against the mops, her legs threatening to give out. Utterly spent. Utterly wrecked. Again.

He pushed the cupboard door open a fraction, peered out, then wider. "Coast's clear." He stepped out, then reached back in for her hand, pulling her, stumbling, into the dim light of the empty locker room.

The air felt cold on her flushed skin. She swayed, catching herself on the edge of the bench. He stood watching her, his chest rising and falling heavily, his eyes dark, unreadable. His glasses were slightly askew. His hair was a mess. He looked… undone. And utterly, dangerously compelling.

Her leggings were still bunched around her mid-thighs. She felt exposed, raw, shaken to her core.

"I…" she started, her voice a dry croak. What could she even say? That was the craziest, most terrifyingly hot thing that’s ever happened to me?

He raked a hand through his hair, a gesture of… what? Frustration? Lingering arousal? He wouldn’t meet her eyes. "We should… go."

The walk to the exit, and then to their cars in the near-empty parking lot, was executed in a stilted, unbearable silence. The earlier charged air was now thick with something else: awkwardness, confusion, the unspoken weight of what the actual fuck did we just do?

No goodbyes were exchanged. Just a fleeting, sideways glance as she fumbled for her car keys, her hands still shaking. He was already striding towards his own car, his back rigid.

She practically fell into her driver's seat, her body thrumming, her mind a chaotic whirl. That asshole. That quiet, nerdy, infuriatingly precise asshole had just… owned her. Twice. In a cleaning cupboard.

The drive home was a blur.

The next day at the gym was excruciating. Chloe’s strategy was simple: avoidance.

She’d plotted her workout to keep her on the opposite side of the cavernous space from wherever Ethan happened to be. If he was at the squat rack, she was on the treadmill. If he moved to free weights, she migrated to the cable machines.

It was a pathetic, juvenile dance, and she hated herself for it.

But every time she caught a glimpse of him – adjusting those glasses, meticulously wiping down a machine with that annoying precision, lifting with that quiet, infuriating focus – her stomach twisted, and the memory of his mouth on hers, his fingers inside her, the raw intensity in his eyes as he watched her come apart in that cramped, dark cupboard, flooded back, hot and insistent.

Did that really happen? Or did I just dream the most fucked-up, intense dream of my life?

He, the bastard, seemed utterly, completely, maddeningly unaffected.

When she walked in, a knot of anxiety tight in her chest, he’d given her a curt, almost imperceptible nod – the same goddamn nod he gave everyone – and then returned to his set of deadlifts, his expression as flat and unreadable as ever. No lingering looks. No awkward hovering. No acknowledgement whatsoever of the fact that less than twelve hours ago, they’d been… that.

It was almost worse than if he’d leered or tried to talk about it. His cool indifference made her question her own sanity, her own reactions. Had it meant nothing to him? Just a physical release? Scratching an itch, as her brain unhelpfully supplied.

But she knew. Despite his infuriating composure, she felt the shift. The air itself seemed to hold its breath whenever they were inadvertently near each other. It was like a finely tuned string pulled taut between them, humming with an almost unbearable frequency.

And she saw it. Or she thought she did. The way his gaze sometimes snapped to her when he thought she wasn’t looking – a flicker of that same consuming intensity she’d seen in the rain, in the locker room, before he masked it again, his expression smoothing back into that perpetual seriousness. His eyes… they still snagged on her. She’d feel a prickle on her skin, turn, and he’d be looking away, back to his weights, but the sheer force of that brief attention lingered, making her flush.

Ugh. Stop it. He was annoying. Judgmental. And probably alphabetized his damned sock drawer. And yet… the memory of his hands, his mouth… God, his hands. So strong. So sure. He knew exactly what pressure to apply, exactly how to…

Chloe slammed her water bottle down a little too hard on the treadmill console, earning a curious glance from the woman jogging beside her. She forced a tight smile.

Days melted into a week. The gym became a battleground of unspoken tension and carefully avoided eye contact. Chloe found herself overthinking everything. That time he'd brushed past her near the leg press – had his arm lingered against hers for a fraction of a second too long? That comment he’d made to someone else, just within her earshot, about "wasted effort" – was it a subtle dig at her slightly less intense workout that day?

She was becoming obsessed. And she hated it. She hated him for making her feel this way: off-kilter, anxious, and so, so physically aware.

She started noticing things she’d deliberately ignored before, or maybe never truly registered. The defined lines of his forearms when he was doing pull-ups, the way the muscles in his back rippled under the thin fabric of his band t-shirts. Okay, so "strictly nerdy" was definitely off the table. There was a quiet, coiled strength about him that was, damn it, incredibly captivating. He wasn't just book-smart; he was… formidable.

One afternoon, she was struggling with the shoulder press. She'd upped the weight, a petty, internal competition against an invisible opponent – or maybe against him, even in his absence from her immediate vicinity. Her form felt off, her left shoulder protesting.

"You're flaring your elbows too wide."

His voice. Low. Close. Too fucking close.

She stiffened, nearly dropping the dumbbells. He was standing right behind her, his reflection meeting hers in the mirrored wall. His grey eyes, behind those ever-present glasses, were fixed on her form, analytical and, God help her, intensely focused.

"Brainiac," she bit out, her voice tight, refusing to turn around. "Didn't see you there." She wanted to add stalker, but it felt too childish, too revealing.

"It’s putting too much strain on your rotator cuff," he continued, ignoring her jab, his tone infuriatingly even. "Bring your elbows in slightly. Think about pushing up and slightly back, not just straight up."

She wanted to tell him to fuck off. She wanted to drop the weights and storm out. But his words… they made sense. And she could feel the uncomfortable twinge in her shoulder. Damn him for being right. Again.

Gritting her teeth, she adjusted her grip, brought her elbows in, and focused on the movement he described. It felt… better. Smoother. Stronger.

"See?" His voice was still right behind her, a low hum that vibrated through her. She could feel the faint warmth radiating off him. Stop noticing that, Chloe.

She completed the set, her arms burning, and carefully racked the dumbbells. She still didn’t turn around. "Thanks," she muttered, aiming for dismissive, but it came out sounding breathless.

"Don't mention it." A beat of silence. She could feel his gaze on her back, a tangible pressure. "Chloe…"

Her name. The way he said it, low and rough, like he was tasting it. It sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. Oh no. No no no.

She finally turned, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "What, Ethan?"

He took a small step closer. The gym noise seemed to fade. It was just them, the air crackling with unspoken things. His gaze dropped, just for a heartbeat, to her mouth, then flicked back up. That brief glance was like a brand.

"That night…" he began, his voice even lower, almost a murmur. "In the locker room…"

Her heart leaped into her throat. Here it was. The reckoning. The awkward conversation. Or maybe, the part where he told her it was a mistake, a one-off, never to be repeated. She braced herself.

He looked… different. Not just serious, but… strained. There were faint shadows under his eyes. As if he hadn't been sleeping well either. Good.

"It wasn't… a mistake, was it ?," he said, as if reading her mind. His directness was like a punch to the gut.

Chloe blinked. "What do you mean?" Her voice sounded ridiculously small.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "It wasn't." He took another step. They were practically toe-to-toe now. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He smelled faintly of soap and that unique, musky scent that was just… him. It made her stomach flip. "It's been… distracting."

Distracting? She wanted to laugh hysterically. It had hijacked her entire goddamn existence for a week. "Distracting how?" she managed, her voice dangerously soft.

His eyes, those intense grey eyes, bored into hers. "Thinking about ..... your taste. You." His voice was a rasp. "Thinking about .... You" His eyes lingered too her lips, then back to her eyes.

Oh. Fuck. Her breath hitched. Heat, immediate and undeniable, pooled low in her belly, a treacherous throb. This was not the conversation she’d expected. This was… something else entirely.

"Thinking about it a lot," he continued, his gaze unwavering, almost predatory. "If you want to. Allow me." his bit his lower lip. "Properly this time." He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, a surprisingly gentle touch that sent sparks across her skin. Then his thumb traced her lower lip, slowly, deliberately. "Thinking about every goddamn thing I want to do to you, Chloe."

Her mind went blank. All the witty retorts, the ingrained annoyance, just… evaporated. There was only the raw, scorching honesty in his eyes, the rough velvet of his voice, the possessive heat of his touch. He wanted her. Not just in a fleeting, opportunistic way. He wanted her. The realization was terrifying. And exhilarating.

"And what if I don't want that?" she whispered, but it was a token protest, even to her own ears. Her body was already humming, leaning almost imperceptibly into his touch.

A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. It transformed his face, making him look wolfish. Dangerous. "You don't?," he murmured, his thumb still stroking her lip. "You wouldn't be standing here, trembling, and then lying to my face, would you ?." He leaned in, his lips almost brushing hers. What the hell ??? "You wouldn’t look at me the way you do when you think I’m not watching."

He knew. Damn him, he knew. He saw right through her.

"Maybe," she conceded, her voice barely audible, her gaze dropping to his mouth. His lips… she remembered their taste, their feel, their brutal demand. God, I need to get laid. Or maybe, she just needed him. The thought was a shock.

He stepped back, gave her another look and spoke lowly, "What do men even find attractive in you?" He hissed. What the fuck?

"What did you just say ?" she hissed back. Is he one of those men who take rejection too personal? Egoistic Prick.

"Say that shit again." Chloe stepped closer to his face. Fuming. Her heart was beating so loud he could almost hear it. The rapid turn of emotions almost shattered her heart, and she couldn't even think of nothing but of him. Ethan. the egoistic brainiac prick.

Ethan's smile faded for a second and he stepped closer towards her, eliminating the remaining space between them. "You are just another girl Chloe." He smiled.

"You are just another girl."