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“Yes, Daddy.”

Then she’s gone, and I’m alone in the empty gym with a hard-on that won’t quit and the dawning, horrifying certainty that I am going to lose this fight.

I just don’t know how badly, yet.

8

CRUZ

Hot water hammers down my back, washing the last of the session off my skin. My shoulders ache in that good way, the kind that means I worked hard in the weight room, and my head’s already three steps ahead. Post-shower protein, ice on the left knee, maybe text Dante about tomorrow. Maybe don’t text Dante about tomorrow. Still working that one out.

I tip my face into the spray and let it pound against my eyelids.

The locker room door bangs open. Footsteps. Quick ones, not the heavy plod of Brady or the unhurried stride of Eli. I shut off the water and grab the towel slung over the partition.

“Yo, who’s that?”

No answer.

I step out from behind the tiled wall, towel in hand instead of around my waist because whoever it is has seen me naked a hundred times. Probably Brady. Or Dante with some bullshit excuse to come back in here.

It’s not Brady. It’s not Dante.

Dakota stands frozen by the bench, cheeks blotchy red, chest rising and falling like she just ran sprints. Her eyes lock ontomine for half a second before they drop. Then drop further. Then snap up to the ceiling like it offended her.

“Oh, fuck. Shit. Sorry.Fuck.”

A laugh punches out of me. “Sweetheart, this is the men’s room.”

“I know. I know that.” Her hands flap at her sides. “I just needed…”

“You needed?”

“A minute. I needed a minute and the women’s was… someone was in there and I just…” She’s looking everywhere except at me. Which means she already looked. Which means she knows exactly what she’s not looking at.

I don’t move. Don’t cover up. Don’t pull the towel hanging off my finger around my waist. There’s a wickedness crawling up my spine and I know I should kill it, but Dakota’s cheeks are the color of a sunset and her throat keeps working like she’s trying to swallow something that won’t go down.

And my dick? My dick has opinions.

It’s filling out fast, heavy between my thighs, and I don’t do a damn thing to stop it. She looks. She can’t help it. Her eyes drop again, just for a second, and her lips part like she forgot how breathing works.

“Cruz.” Her voice cracks. “Jesus.”

“What’s got you all flustered, Fisher?”

“Nothing.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Nothing, I just…” She trails off.

“Was it Coach?”

Her head snaps up. “What?”

There it is. The flush deepens, blooms down her neck and disappears under the collar of her tank. Her hand comes up to her throat like she can press the heat back in. She’s still not covering her eyes. Still not turning around.

I take a step toward her. Slow. Lazy. Dropping my towel to the floor on the way.