Chapter 2 - Chloe
I'm soaking wet.
Not metaphorically. Not a little bit. I am genuinely, physically wet between my legs, my panties clinging to me in a way that makes me desperately grateful I wore black leggings today because anything else would show it, would betray exactly what happened the moment his hands touched my hips.
His big hands.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, pretending to focus on my stance, pretending I'm absorbing whatever he's saying about weight distribution and foundation, but all I can think about is how his palms felt against my body.
How completely they covered the span of my hips.
How easily he moved me, like I weighed nothing, like adjusting my position was the most natural thing in the world.
I have never been this turned on in my entire life.
Not with my ex. Not during the three years we were together, not even in the beginning when things were supposedly good. Not with the two boyfriends before him. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my apartment when I actually had the energy and inclination to try.
Nothing has ever made my body react like this.
And it's been less than thirty minutes since I walked through the door.
"—your shoulders."
I blink. He's talking. He's been talking. I have absolutely no idea what he just said.
"Sorry?" My voice comes out higher than I intend. I clear my throat. "Sorry, could you repeat that?"
He's standing several feet away now, arms crossed over his chest, and even that, even the way he's just standing there, does something to me that I don't have vocabulary for.
He's enormous. I knew that from the moment I saw him behind the desk, but having him this close, in this space, with no one else around, the reality of his size is almost overwhelming.
He's easily a foot taller than me. Maybe more.
His shoulders are so broad they make the training area feel smaller.
And his arms, crossed like that, the tattoos dark against his skin, the muscles shifting even in that casual stance—
"Your shoulders," he repeats, and there's something in his voice now.
Not impatience exactly, but a slight edge.
Like he's realized I haven't been listening.
"You're holding tension in them. You need to drop them down.
Tension in your shoulders means tension through your whole body. You want to be ready, not rigid."
"Right," I say. "Okay. Drop my shoulders."
I try to do what he says. I genuinely try. But my brain is not cooperating, because my brain is currently occupied with the truly deranged thought that I want him to grab me.
Not guide me. Not adjust my form.
Grab me.
I want him to put those massive hands on my body again and this time not let go.
I want him to toss me down onto this mat like I'm nothing, like he could break me in half without effort, and I want to offer him everything.
Right here. Right now. On the floor of this gym with the door unlocked and daylight coming through the windows.
I have never had a thought like this before in my life.
I am not this kind of woman.
I don't have casual sex. I've had three boyfriends and slept with all of them only after months of dating, and even then it was fine, it was nice, it was the thing you do when you're in a relationship and it feels like the next logical step.
I have never looked at a man and wanted him to fuck me within thirty minutes of meeting him.
But I'm looking at one now.
And I don't just want him to fuck me.
I want him to ruin me.
The word comes into my head fully formed, and I feel my face go hot.
*Ruin*. That's what I want. I want this enormous, terrifying man with his scarred knuckles and his dark eyes and his voice like gravel to put his hands on me and take me apart, and I would let him, I would let him do absolutely anything he wanted, and I have clearly lost my mind.
"Chloe."
My name. He's saying my name. His voice is louder now, definitely louder, like it's not the first time he's said it.
"Yes," I say quickly. Too quickly. "Yes. Sorry. I'm listening."
He looks at me for a long moment. His eyes are so dark they're almost black in this light, and I cannot read his expression at all.
He could be annoyed. He could be confused.
He has absolutely no idea that I'm standing here fully dressed and soaking wet thinking about what it would feel like to have him between my legs.
God, at least I hope he has no idea.
"We're going to run through it again," he says. "Feet. Hips. Shoulders. I want you to feel the whole sequence. Feel how your body connects."
"Okay," I say.
He walks me through it. Feet shoulder-width apart, right foot angled slightly out, weight shifting onto the balls of my feet, hips angled, shoulders down.
I follow his instructions, trying desperately to focus on what he's teaching me, because I paid for this lesson, because I came here for a reason, because I have an actual legitimate need to learn how to defend myself.
But all I can think about is his hands.
They're so much bigger than my face. I noticed that immediately.
When I was standing at the front desk looking up at him, my first coherent thought after *oh my god he's terrifying* was *his hands could cover my entire face*.
I could measure my head from chin to forehead and his palm would span it completely.
And now I can't stop thinking about what that would feel like.
What it would feel like to have those hands on my throat. On my wrists. Pinning me down.
"Better," he says.
I have no idea what I just did that was better. I'm just standing here trying not to visibly pant.
"Now I want you to practice moving from this stance," he continues. "Step forward with your right foot, bring your left up to match. Keep your base. Don't let your feet come together. Try it."
I try it. I step forward. I apparently do it wrong, because he steps in again.
"May I," he says.
It's not really a question. It's the same thing he said before, that warning, that single beat of time where I can say no.
I should say no. I should absolutely say no, because if he touches me again, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to keep standing here pretending to be a normal person learning a normal skill.
"Yes," I say.
His hand settles on my lower back this time.
I stop breathing.
He's adjusting my posture. That's all he's doing.
His palm is pressed against my spine, broad and warm even through my sweatshirt, and he's guiding me forward into the next step, showing me how to move without losing my foundation.
It's instruction. It's completely professional.
It's the exact same thing he would do with any student.
And I am drowning in how badly I want him.
The thought comes so clear and so strong that I'm genuinely afraid I said it out loud.
*I want you*. I want you to stop being professional.
I want you to stop teaching me. I want you to push me down onto this mat and put your hands anywhere you want them and I will not stop you, I will not say no, I will say yes to anything you want.
"Good," he says, and steps back.
The absence of his hand feels like loss.
I'm losing my mind. That's the only explanation. I drove here from my apartment twenty minutes away, I walked through the door of this gym like a rational adult woman seeking practical self-defense skills, and somewhere in the last half hour I have completely detached from reality.
"Let's try palm strikes," he says.
I blink at him. "What?"
"Palm strikes. Basic strike, very effective, less likely to hurt your hand than a closed fist." He demonstrates, his arm extending in a sharp movement, palm out. "You're aiming for the nose, the chin, the throat. Soft targets. You want to drive through, not just tap. Try it."
I try it. I extend my arm the way he showed me. It feels awkward and weak and nothing like what he just did.
"Harder," he says. "You're not going to hurt the air. Drive through. Like you mean it."
I try again. I put more force behind it, and it's still nothing compared to what he's capable of, but it's better than the first attempt.
"Again."
I do it again. And again. He corrects my form, tells me to keep my wrist straight, to engage my shoulder, to step into the strike for more power.
I'm actually starting to follow his instructions now, my brain finally cooperating enough to absorb what he's teaching me, and I feel something shift.
Something that has nothing to do with how wet I am or how badly I want him.
I feel capable.
It's a strange feeling. Unfamiliar. I've never thought of my body as something that could protect me.
I've always been small, soft, the kind of person who avoids confrontation because physically I would lose.
But standing here, practicing this movement, feeling the way my whole body can drive force into a single point—
"Good," he says. "That's good. You're getting it."
We keep going. He teaches me how to break a grip on my wrist, how to create space if someone's too close, how to use my hips and legs for power instead of relying on upper body strength I don't have.
He's patient. Surprisingly patient. His voice stays level the entire time, his instructions clear and specific, and he never touches me again without asking first.
Which is good.
Which is also devastating.
Because every time he asks "may I" and every time I say yes and every time his hands settle on some part of my body to adjust my form, I feel that pull again. That deep visceral desire that I have never experienced before and have no idea what to do with.
The hour passes faster than I expect.
"That's time," he says eventually, and I look at the clock on the wall and realize he's right. One hour have somehow compressed into what feels like twenty minutes.
"Oh," I say. "Okay."
"You did well," he says. "For a first session. You're retaining the instruction."
"Thank you," I manage.
There's a pause. He's looking at me, and I'm looking at him, and I should leave. I should absolutely pick up my bag and walk out of this gym and get in my car and drive home and take a very long cold shower and never think about this again.
Instead I hear myself say, "Same time next week?"
"Yeah," he says. "Same time."
"Okay," I say. "Good."
I grab my bag. I'm very cautious not to look at him as I walk toward the front of the gym. I'm very careful to keep my spine straight and my steps even, because if I let myself think too hard about what just happened, about how I feel right now, I'm going to fall apart.
I make it to the door. I make it outside. I make it to my car.
I sit in the driver's seat with my hands on the steering wheel and my heart pounding and the wetness between my legs that hasn't lessened even slightly, and I think:
What the fuck was that?
I have no answer.
I start the car. I drive home. And I don't let myself think about his hands until I'm alone in my apartment with the door locked, curled up on the couch, and my body finally allowed to acknowledge how badly it's aching.
Even then, I don't touch myself.
I'm not ready to admit what that would mean.