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“I’m fine,” he replies, but it lacks any conviction.

“Mmhmm.”

I duck under his next attempt, secure an underhook, drive him backward until his shoulders hit the mat. He lets me take the top position. His chest is rising and falling too fast for the work we’ve actually done.

“Hands up. Defend.”

He frames against my collarbones. My thighs settle high around his ribs, and I plant my hands on his shoulders.

He’s not breathing.

“Brady,” I say his name.

His face is already flushed, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s memorizing the pattern of the rafters.

I bridge into him for the drill, hips rolling forward. Standard mount maintenance. Nothing I haven’t done a hundred times.

Except this time I feel him—hard, thick, unmistakable—pressed against my ass through our shorts.

His whole body goes rigid. The flush climbs from his neck to his hairline in seconds.

“Shit. Shit. Dakota, I—get off, I’m sorry—” He tries to buck me off, panicking, and I shift my weight to ride it out.

My hips roll with the movement and I feel every inch of him underneath me. Heat floods between my thighs so fast it makes me dizzy. I lean forward, palms pressing his shoulders into the mat, and grind down deliberately.

He makes a noise—half-groan, half-whimper—and his hands fly to my hips like he can’t decide if he wants to push me away or pull me closer.

“Dakota—” His voice cracks.

“Shh.” I roll my hips again, slower this time. Testing. His cock is right there, hard ridge pressing exactly where I’m already wet and aching. I bite my lip to keep from moaning. “Bodies do this, Brady. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I can’t—people are—” He’s trembling underneath me with his eyes squeezed shut and breathing ragged.

“No one’s watching us.” I lean down until my mouth is next to his ear, close enough that my breath ghosts across his skin. “But I am. And you should feel how fucking wet you’ve made me.”

His hips jerk up involuntarily and I gasp—quiet, but he hears it. His eyes fly open and lock on mine.

“You—” He can’t finish the sentence.

I shift my weight forward again, just slightly, and his grip on my hips tightens. “Yeah, I’m turned on too.” My voice comes out rougher than I expect. “So maybe stop apologizing and just breathe through it.”

“I don’t—I can’t think when you’re—” Another helpless grind of his hips, and this time I don’t hide my reaction. My mouth parts on a soft sound and his pupils expand.

“Dakota.” My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“I don’t know.” He’s shaking harder now. “Just—something. Anything.”

I want to kiss him. Want to rock on him until we’re both coming in our gym clothes with Cruz and Dante twenty feet away. Want to drag him to the locker room and let him fuck me against the wall until neither of us can stand.

Instead, I drag my nails lightly down his chest, watching goosebumps chase the path. “We’re going to finish this round. Then you’re going to go home and think about this. About me on top of you. About how hard you are. About what you want to do about it.”

He makes that sound again—wrecked, desperate.

“And tomorrow,” I murmur, grinding down one more time just to watch his eyes roll back, “we’re going to do this drill again. And the next day. Until you stop running from what you want.”

His jaw works. “I’m not?—”