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His bound hands flexed uselessly behind him. Despite being half of Santiago’s size. Sadie could feel every twitch of Julian’s cock inside her, every involuntary pulse when she clenched deliberately around him. She leaned forward, breasts brushing his chest through her thin tank top, nipples hard points scraping cotton. Her mouth hovered an inch from his, close enough to share breath, far enough to deny the kiss. Julian’s pupils were blown wide, dark irises swallowed by black. His jaw worked, teeth grinding; a thin sheen of sweat already gleamed along his hairline.

She moved faster, short, punishing strokes that slapped skin against skin in the quiet room. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the wet slide of their bodies, and the occasional creak of the chair. Sadie’s clit rubbed against his pubic bone with every downward grind; pleasure tightened in her pelvis, sharp and hot. She could feel Julian’s thighs trembling beneath her, his abs contracting in steady pulses as he fought not to thrust up into her, letting her set the pace and take control.

She took it.

Her nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt. Her rhythm faltered once, twice, then shattered. Orgasm hit her like a snapped rubber band: sudden, violent, silent. She clamped down around him so hard his hips jerked involuntarily, a choked sound escaping his throat despite his best efforts. Sadie’s head dropped forward, forehead pressing against his, eyes squeezed shut as wave after wave rolled through her core, inner walls fluttering and milking him relentlessly.

Julian lasted three more strokes.

He came with a low, guttural groan he couldn’t quite stifle. His hips snapped up once, twice, burying himself as deep as possible while he pulsed inside of the condom, hot and thick. Sadie stayed seated, grinding slowly through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until he was spent, softening inside her, breath coming in harsh pants against her neck.

She carefully lifted off of him, thighs shaking. Neither of them spoke. She untied the silk from his wrists, red welts already blooming on golden skin, then stepped back, tugged her leggings up, and smoothed her hair. Julian easily slid the used condom off of his flaccid dick and tied it off. He tucked his floppy three inches away, re-zipped, re-buttoned. He flexed his hands once, twice, then picked up his notebook as though nothing had happened.

Sadie shouldered her backpack.

“See you tomorrow at 7,” she said, voice steady. “Don’t be late.”

Julian’s mouth curved just that same half-smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She left without looking back.

Across the hall, hidden in the shadow of the reference stacks, Santiago watched the door of Room 412 close behind her.

He hadn’t meant to be here.

He’d come to drop off a forgotten computer science reference book, so he thought he’d leave it on the circulation desk with a note. But then he’d seen her: dark hair swinging, purposeful stride, the way her shoulders were set like she was walking into battle. Curiosity, then something sharper, had pulled him after her.

He’d watched her disappear into the study room.

He watched the door lock.

He watched the faint, rhythmic rocking of the chair through the narrow window in the door, too small to see details, but more than enough to understand.

His chest felt like someone had reached in and squeezed his heart in a cold fist.

He turned away before the door opened again. He walked, didn’t run down the stairs, out the side exit, across the dark quad. The night air was sharp, biting at his cheeks, but he barely felt it. He got into his car and drove.

The men’s training facility was still open, lights on in the weight room and the faint clang of plates echoing even at this hour. Santiago didn’t bother with the locker room. He went straight to the squat rack and loaded the bar with every plate he could find, 505lbs, until it bowed under the weight, more than he’d ever tried in a single set.

He ducked under the bar, gripped it so hard his knuckles bleached white.

And then he lifted.

Again.

And again.

Each rep felt like a hammer blow against the image stuck in his mind: Sadie’s hand gripping Julian’s collar, the chair rocking. The silence that followed.

He didn’t stop until his thighs trembled, his lungs burned, and sweat soaked through his shirt in dark rivers. Only then did he rack the bar with a clang that rang through the empty room.

He stood there, breathing hard, staring at nothing.

He didn’t know what came next.

He only knew he wasn’t going home tonight. Not while the taste of jealousy and frustration was still metallic on his tongue and the ghost of her hand on another man’s shirt still played behind his eyes.

At 12:43 a.m., the training facility was full of shadows and echoes. Security lights cast long, cold rectangles across the rubber floor. The air was thick with the ghost of chalk dust, the faint smell of erg straps, and the lingering musk of sweat-soaked spandex from earlier practice. The only sound was the steady whir and clack of the ergometer flywheel and the harsh, uneven slap of Santiago’s callused palms against the handle.

He was shirtless, golden-brown skin gleaming under the dim overheads, every muscle carved in high relief by veins that stood out like cords under the surface. Sweat ran in steady rivulets from his temples, down the thick column of his neck, between the slabs of his pecs, tracing the deep V of his obliques before soaking into the waistband of his black compression shorts. At 6’6" and two hundred pounds of lean, rowing-honed power, he looked less like a man and more like a machine being driven past a redline.

He wasn’t rowing. He was punishing himself.

Each pull yanked the chain so hard the metal groaned. The flywheel spun so fast the numbers on the monitor blurred. His shoulders were locked forward, traps tight, jaw clenched so hard the muscles stood out. Every stroke was an attempt to outrun the image stuck in his mind from two hours ago: Sadie’s small hand gripping Julian Park’s collar as she moved up and down on his cock.

The thought struck him again, sharp and sudden. His next pull was savage, the chain screaming and the flywheel howling. Something deep in his lat gave a warning twinge, but he ignored it.

A shadow looms over the coach’s office doorway.

Sloane Kensington stepped into the light, clipboard dangling forgotten at her side. At 5 '7", she was slightly taller than most women, solidly built from years of Olympic track and field, her dark brunette hair scraped back into a severe ponytail that exposed the clean line of her jaw. She wore the standard staff polo shirt and black track pants, but even in the half-light her hazel eyes were sharp, dissecting him the way she’d assess a torn rotator cuff or a stress fracture.

She watched for a full minute, silent and clinical, noting his locked shoulders, grinding jaw, and the way his breathing had shifted from steady to ragged gasps. Then she walked over, reached down, and yanked the power cord from the monitor with one decisive tug.

The screen went dark. The flywheel spun down with a dying whine. Silence crashed in, leaving only Santiago’s heaving breaths and the faint drip of sweat hitting the floor.

He didn’t look at her immediately. He stayed bent over the erg, hands still gripping the handle, forearms corded, knuckles white.

“Your shoulders are locked,” Sloane said, voice cutting through the quiet like a scalpel. “Your jaw is grinding. You keep pulling like that, and you’re going to tear a lat or worse, pop something in your lower back. You’re going to hurt yourself, Santiago.”

Santiago straightened slowly. His chest rose and fell in harsh surges. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. When he finally turned his head, his brown eyes were nearly black pupils blown wide with rage and something darker, hungrier.

“Leave it alone, Kensington,” he said, voice low and rough, the warning unmistakable. He unstrapped his feet, stood, and tried to step past her toward the locker-room corridor.

She didn’t move.

She planted herself squarely in his path, chin tilted up, close enough that he could smell the clean spearmint of the muscle rub she always wore after long shifts. At 5 '7", she had to look up nearly a foot to meet his gaze, but there was no shrinking, no retreat. Her body language said she faced bigger men and left unmarked.

“You spend your whole life holding back,” she said, her voice dropping into a low, commanding tone that cut through the noise in his head. “All that terrifying power hidden behind the polite, gentle-giant act. You’re afraid of breaking something. I’ve heard you talking to your brother about a girl” She stepped closer, invading his space until her chest almost brushed his sweat-slick sternum. “That she doesn’t have time for you right now.”

“But sure seems to have time for quick fucks in study rooms” he grumbles back.

“And you’re out here trying to be so damn polite about it” Sloane countered. “Stop trying to be a saint and try being a sinner. You might enjoy it.”

The word polite landed like a match in dry grass.

Santiago’s control, the iron restraint, snapped with an almost audible crack.

He moved with explosive speed.

One moment, he was standing still; the next, his large hands clamped around Sloane’s waist, lifting and driving her backward until her spine hit the cold concrete wall with a controlled thud that rattled the nearby weight rack. Her clipboard clattered to the floor. His body caged hers, forearms braced on either side of her head, thighs pinning her hips, the hard length of his cock already straining against his shorts and pressing insistently into her lower belly.

Sloane didn’t gasp. Didn’t flinch.

She grabbed the back of his neck with both hands, nails digging into damp skin, and yanked his head down.

The kiss was not gentle.

It was a collision: teeth clashing, tongues fighting, lips bruising. Santiago devoured her mouth like a man starved, all his pent-up hunger, rage, and need pouring out in rough, desperate strokes. His hands slid down to grip the backs of her thighs and lifted her easily; her legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. The thin fabric of her track pants did nothing to hide how wet she already was. He could feel her heat through the layers and smell the sharp, aroused scent rising between them.

He ground against her, slow, punishing rolls of his hips that dragged the thick ridge of his erection along her cleft. Sloane moaned into his mouth low, feral, her fingers twisting in his sweat-damp hair, pulling hard enough to sting. She bit his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and he growled a deep, animal sound that vibrated through both their chests.

He pulled his mouth from hers just long enough to rip her polo over her head. She wore no bra underneath, just firm, athletic breasts, nipples already tight and dark rose against pale skin. He ducked his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing just shy of pain. Sloane’s back arched off the wall, a sharp hiss escaping her.

“Fuck... yes...”

He switched to the other breast, hand sliding between them to shove her pants down just far enough. No underwear. Of course not. Sloane was always practical. His fingers found her soaked, swollen, clit throbbing under his thumb as he circled with ruthless precision. She bucked against his hand, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that would bloom into bruises by morning.

Santiago freed himself one-handed cock springing out, thick and flushed, veins standing proud, then lined up and thrust home in one brutal stroke.

Sloane’s head hit the concrete wall; her mouth opened in a silent scream that turned into a low, guttural moan as he started to move. There was no warm-up, no gentleness. Just raw, pounding rhythm, his hips snapping forward, balls slapping against her with every deep thrust. The angle had him hitting the front wall of her with punishing accuracy; she clenched around him like a vise, inner muscles rippling in frantic pulses.

He fucked her like he was trying to erase the last two weeks, every locked study-room door, every missed night, every polite coffee date that ended with a chaste kiss on the cheek. His mouth found her throat, teeth scraping over her pulse, sucking hard enough to mark. Sloane’s legs tightened around him, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper. She came first, sudden and violent, her walls spasming so tightly around him he nearly lost his rhythm. Her cry was muffled against his shoulder, teeth sinking into muscle as her body shook. The sensation of hot, wet, rhythmic clamping pulled his own release from him like a confession. He buried himself to the hilt, hips grinding in tight circles, and spilled inside her with a broken groan that echoed off the high ceiling, pulse after thick pulse, filling her until he felt it leak out.

They stayed locked together for long seconds, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync, until Sloane finally loosened her legs. Santiago eased her down slowly, his thighs trembling from the effort. She slid to her feet, back still braced against the wall, track pants tangled around her knees.

Neither spoke for long.

Then Sloane reached up, cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the bruise already forming on his lip, and met his eyes.

“Better?” she asked, voice rough.

Santiago exhaled a long, shuddering breath.

“Not even close,” he rasped.

Sloane, practical, unflinching, was more than willing to give him everything he needed to take. She grasped his deflating shaft and stroked it back to life.

The helpless romantic was gone tonight.

What remained was a man finally allowed to take without apology. They continued their high charged cathartic sexual release for two more hours, until they ran out of breath. Their bodies dripping with sweat, hair soaked, and the scent of sex filled the training room.

Once they had recovered they shared a hot shower in the men’s locker room. Santiago couldn’t keep his hands, mouth or member away from her. He lifted her on to his cock and bounced her up and down on it as her hips grinded into him. Eventually he let her down and spun her around so he could take her from behind.

They finally parted ways around 4am. Sloane left happily exhausted, it had been two months since her last sexual dalliance, and she didn’t think this night could be topped. Though Santiago was tired, his body vibrated with adrenaline. Driving home he knew as soon as he hit the bed he would crash.

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