Sweat stings my eyes.
Heavy iron groans against my shaking arms.
I’m stuck.
Leg press machine locked at two hundred and forty pounds. My quads burn like they’re on fire. My thighs tremble. My breath comes in ragged gasps.
I hate being weak.
I hate needing help.
But my body is failing me. The weight might as well be a car crushing my bones.
I’m about to jam the release lever with my knee when a shadow falls over me.
Tall. Broad. Unmistakable.
Leather gloves smell like cedar and something darker. Something primal.
A voice drops into my ear, low and rough, vibrating straight through my chest.
“Breathe, little girl. Push through the heels.”
I flinch. The words hit me like a live wire.
I don’t know who he is. I don’t care.
His hands are already on me.
One settles at the small of my back. The other covers my hip, fingers digging into my gym shorts. Solid. Inescapable. Warm.
He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need it.
His thumb strokes my waist. Just once. But it sends a jolt straight to my core.
My pussy clenches. Wet. Instant. Unfair.
I haven’t been touched by a man in months. Yet my body remembers him like it’s been waiting.
“Keep your spine flat,” he murmurs. “Drive the weight. Don’t lock out. Let your muscles do the work.”
His voice is older. Gravel over velvet. The kind of voice that gives orders and expects obedience.
The kind of voice that makes me want to drop to my knees.
I push.
The plates shift. The chain rattles. My legs burn, but they move. Smooth. Controlled.
He doesn’t let go.
His palm stays pressed between my shoulder blades. Guiding. Anchoring. Possessive.
I can feel his body heat through my thin tank top. Can feel the hard line of his chest against my back. Can feel the steady, relentless rhythm of his breathing.
It’s intoxicating.
It’s wrong.
It’s exactly what I need.
I hit the top. Lock my knees for a fraction of a second before he catches me.
“Told you not to lock,” he says. His voice is darker now. Closer. “You’re mine to protect. I won’t let you hurt yourself.”
I freeze.
Mine.
The word wraps around my ribs like a steel band.
I turn slowly. The weight stack clatters as I step back. My legs are still shaking, but not from exhaustion. From want.
He’s older. Definitely. Late forties maybe. Early fifties. No, older. The kind of age that carries weight in its silence. In its stillness.
His face is carved from granite. High cheekbones. A sharp jaw shadowed with stubble. Dark hair, silver at the temples, cropped short. Eyes the color of storm clouds over black water. Cold. Calculating. Hungry.
He’s wearing a fitted black tee that strains across his chest. Sweatpants hang low on his hips. A thick silver chain glints at his throat. A wedding band sits on his right hand.
But he’s not looking at it.
He’s looking at me.
Like I’m the only thing in the room.
Like I’m already his.
My pulse hammers in my throat. My nipples harden against my sports bra. My thighs press together, desperate for friction.
He steps closer.
The air thickens. Heavy. Electric.
He reaches out. Slow. Deliberate. Brushes a damp strand of hair from my face. His knuckles graze my cheek. My skin blooms at the contact.
“Your name,” he says. Not a request. A demand.
“Elara,” I whisper.
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. A claim.
“Elara.” He rolls my name around like he’s tasting it. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. My voice cracks.
He steps into my space. Closes the distance until I can’t see past him. His heat wraps around me. His scent floods my lungs. Cedar. Musket. Salt. Something deeply, undeniably male.
“You’re not fine,” he says. “You’re overexerting yourself. You’re pushing too hard. You’re trying to prove something to a room that doesn’t care.”
His hand slides down. Rests flat on my stomach.
My breath stops.
His palm is warm. Heavy. Grounding.
“You’re not built to suffer,” he murmurs. “You’re built to be filled. To carry. To bloom.”
I should step back. I should slap his hand away. I should call him out for his insolence.
Instead, I lean into his touch.
God, I lean so hard it’s a miracle I don’t fall.
He catches me. Always catches me.
His other arm slides around my waist. Pulls me flush against him.
I gasp.
He’s huge. Dense muscle. Hard as stone. My chest presses to his. My hips align perfectly with his. My pussy throbs, slick and heavy, soaking through my cotton shorts.
He feels it.
Of course he feels it.
His jaw tightens. His storm-gray eyes darken. His thumb strokes slow circles over my lower abdomen.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “So wet for a man you’ve never met. So ready to take what’s yours.”
“I didn’t—” I start, but he cuts me off.
His fingers dip lower. Press just above my panties. Not inside. Not yet. Just enough pressure to make my hips jerk against him.
“Shh,” he orders. “Listen to me, little girl. You don’t need to explain yourself. You just need to obey.”
My knees buckle.
He holds me up. One arm locked around my back. The other still resting on my stomach. Possessive. Final.
“I don’t take orders,” I whisper. But my voice lacks heat. Lacks truth.
He chuckles. Low. Dark. Satisfying.
“No,” he agrees. “But you will take mine. You will take everything I give you. And you will thank me for it.”
His thumb presses harder.
I cry out.
The sound is raw. Unfiltered. A moan torn from my throat before I can stop it.
His eyes flutter shut for half a second. Like he’s memorizing the sound. Like he’s planning to keep it forever.
When he opens them, they’re blazing.
“Good,” he says. “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”
My heart hammers. My skin burns. My pussy drips onto his thigh. He doesn’t flinch. He just breathes me in.
I’m drowning in him.
And I don’t want to be saved.
“I’m leaving,” I gasp. “After this set.”
“You are,” he agrees. “But you’ll be back. Tomorrow. And the day after. You’ll bring your sweat and your stubborn little chin and your wet panties. And I’ll be here.”
His hand slides up. Covers my breast. Squeezes through the fabric.
I whimper.
He leans down. His lips brush my ear.
“You belong to me, Elara,” he murmurs. “You didn’t know it yet. But you do. I’ve been waiting for you. And now that I have you, I’m never letting go.”
His teeth graze my earlobe.
I shiver.
He pulls back. Looks at me. Really looks. Studies my face. My lips. My pulse. My swollen clit.
His expression shifts. Something primal takes over. Something ancient.
He reaches into his gym bag. Pulls out a black gym towel. Hands it to me.
“Wipe your face,” he says. “Dry off. You’re dripping.”
I don’t know why I listen. Why I take the towel. Why I don’t run.
But I do.
I press it to my cheeks. My neck. My chest. My hands shake.
He watches. Patient. Relentless.
When I lower the towel, he’s already stepping forward.
He grips my chin. Tilts my face up.
“Next time,” he says, “you won’t struggle. You’ll let me spot you. You’ll let me push you. You’ll let me break you down until you’re nothing but trembling, wet need.”
His thumb strokes my lower lip.
“And then,” he continues, “I’ll take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere private. I’ll strip you bare. I’ll spread your thighs. And I’ll fill you. Deep. So deep you’ll feel me in your bones. In your womb.”
My breath catches.
My pussy clenches so hard it aches.
“I’ll breed you,” he says. No hesitation. No fear. Just fact. “I’ll plant my seed where it belongs. And you’ll carry it. You’ll swell with it. You’ll grow it. You’ll thank me when it’s time.”
I should be horrified.
I should be running.
Instead, I melt.
My knees go weak. My hands grip his forearms. My body surrenders.
Instalove isn’t a metaphor. It’s a collision. A crash. A sudden, violent knowing.
He’s my anchor. My shelter. My ruin.
He’s mine.
And I’m his.
He sees it. Of course he sees it.
His expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough to make my chest ache.
“Go,” he says, releasing my chin. “Finish your set. Hydrate. Rest. I’ll be watching.”
I step back. My legs feel like water. My skin feels like it’s still burning. My pussy still weeps for him.
I walk away.
I don’t look back.
But I feel him.
Watching. Waiting. Claiming.
I reach the water fountain. My hands tremble as I cup the cold spray. I drink. I swallow. I try to steady my breathing.
It doesn’t work.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
A text.
Unknown number.
*Shower off. Put on something soft. I’ll pick you up in twenty. Don’t make me wait, little girl. I get impatient.*
I stare at the screen.
My thumb hovers.
I could block it. Delete it. Pretend I never saw it.
I could walk out the gym doors and never look back.
I don’t.
I type back.
*I’m wearing black leggings and a tank top. I’ll be outside in ten.*
I hit send.
My heart pounds. My pussy throbs. My stomach flutters.
I’m done with the machines.
Done with the weights.
Done pretending I don’t want what’s coming.
I grab my bag. My keys. My towel.
I walk out.
The afternoon sun hits my face. Hot. Bright. Unforgiving.
A black truck idles at the curb. Engine purring. Tinted windows. Chrome rims.
The passenger door opens before I reach it.
He’s sitting there. Same clothes. Same presence. Same storm in his eyes.
He looks at me. Really looks.
His gaze drops to my lips. My chest. My waist. My thighs.
His jaw tightens.
He reaches out. Opens his door. Steps onto the pavement.
I walk to him.
He doesn’t speak.
He just opens the door. Holds it.
I slide in. The leather seat is cool. The cabin smells like him. Cedar. Musket. Salt. Power.
He shuts the door. Walks around. Gets in.
The door locks with a solid thud.
He doesn’t start the engine. Doesn’t look at the road.
He looks at me.
His hand reaches across the console. Cups my jaw. Thumbs my cheek.
“You came,” he murmurs.
“I did.”
“Good girl.”
His thumb strokes my bottom lip. I part my mouth. Just enough.
He leans in.
His lips crash onto mine.
Hard. Hungry. Claiming.
I melt. Instantly. Completely.
His tongue sweeps inside. Takes what’s mine. Demands what’s his.
I moan into him. My hands grip his shoulders. My thighs press together, desperate, aching.
He breaks the kiss. Breath ragged. Eyes dark.
“Take off your tank top,” he orders.
I don’t hesitate.
I peel it over my head. Drop it on the floor mat.
My sports bra stays on. My nipples press hard against the fabric.
He reaches out. Fingers hook the strap.
I gasp as he pulls it down.
Cold air hits my skin. Then his breath. Hot. Slow. Reverent.
His mouth covers my breast. Sucks. Bites. Licks.
I cry out. My back arches. My fingers tangle in his hair.
He grunts. Deep. Satisfied.
His hand slides down. Over my ribs. My stomach. My hip.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings.
“Down,” he says. “With them.”
I push them down. Step out of them. Leave them in a heap.
I’m in my panties. Lacy. Black. Soaked through.
He looks at me. Really looks.
His eyes darken. His breath hitches.
“God,” he rasps. “You’re perfect.”
He unbuckles his seatbelt. Leans across me.
I’m pinned. Trapped. Safe.
His hand slides between my thighs. Pushes my panties aside.
His fingers find my clit.
I scream.
He covers my mouth with his. Swallows my sound.
His fingers slide inside. Wet. Hot. Perfect.
I buck against him. Desperate. Needing more.
He pulls out. Slow. Torturous.
“Not yet,” he murmurs against my lips. “I want you ready. I want you aching. I want you begging.”
He starts the car.
The engine roars.
He merges onto the street.
I sit there. Bare to the waist. Legs exposed. Heart pounding. Pussy throbbing.
He glances at me. Smirks.
“First chapter’s over, little girl.”
His hand covers my stomach. Squeezes.
“Let’s go get you pregnant.”