Beneath the Tension: What Bodies Cannot Hide

Three weeks since that night in the kitchen, and I still think about her hands on my shoulder. The memory follows me even here, in the locker room's humid air that smells of sweat and cheap body spray.

I slide my gym shirt off, feeling the pleasant ache in my muscles. Today's workout burned away most of my restlessness. Most, but not all.

Michael slams his locker two rows over. "Dude, you've been quiet. What's up?"

"Nothing," I say, unlacing my shoes. "Just focused."

That's when I hear it - a laugh that sounds like money and privilege. I glance up to see Daniel, one of those forty-something guys who spends more time talking than lifting, standing with his designer gym bag beside Michael.

"...telling you, man," Daniel is saying, "best massage I've ever had. The girl knows exactly what she's doing. Hot but a handful."

I wouldn't have paid attention except he mentions the studio. "Vitality Wellness over on Maple, right? Little place with the blue sign?"

My hands freeze on my shoelace.

Michael laughs. "Worth the money?"

"Worth every damn penny," Daniel says. "Therapist named Zoe. Ivory skin, curves that don't quit."

My head snaps up before I can stop myself. Daniel catches my eye and grins, mistaking my attention for interest.

"You know her?" he asks.

I shrug, looking back down at my shoes. "Heard of the place."

"Well, let me tell you about this Zoe," he continues, lowering his voice but not enough. "We had a thing for a while. She's got this bitchy exterior, acts all professional, but—" He makes a crude gesture with his hands.

Something hot and ugly twists in my stomach. I should walk away. I don't want to hear this.

But I can't move.

"We went at it in the changing room after hours," Daniel says, his voice smug. "Pinned her right up against the lockers. She talks a big game, but she loves it rough."

The image hits me like a physical blow: Zoe pressed against cold metal, her head thrown back. I can see it perfectly - her pale skin, her wavy hair spilling across her shoulders, her lips parted.

"Man, the sounds she made," Daniel continues, oblivious to how his words are burning into my brain. "Kept saying 'harder' like she—"

The locker door slams shut under my hand with a crash that silences the entire room. Metal reverberates through the tiled space.

Both men stare at me. I don't look at them. I can't. My jaw is clenched so tight it hurts.

"Didn't mean to interrupt," I mutter, shoving my things into my gym bag with jerky movements.

"You good, Matt?" Michael asks.

I nod once, still not trusting myself to speak. The things Daniel said swirl in my mind - crude and explicit and impossible to unhear. I hate that he touched her. I hate that he's talking about her like this.

I hate even more that I can't stop picturing it.

"I'm out," I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder and pushing past them.

As I walk through the gym's exit into the cool night air, I try to push away Daniel's story. It shouldn't matter. Zoe hooks up with lots of guys. She makes that perfectly clear every time she cancels dates or brags about her conquests over breakfast.

So why do I feel like punching something? Why can't I get the image out of my head?

The walk home is longer than usual, each step heavy with thoughts I don't want to have.

The apartment is dark when I get home. I kick off my shoes, barely registering the sound of Zoe's bedroom door closing. Good. I can't face her right now.

In my room, I strip and shower mechanically, but the hot water does nothing to wash away Daniel's words. They've burrowed under my skin, festering there. I towel off roughly, pull on a pair of boxers, and drop onto my bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it turns lazy circles above me.

"We went at it in the changing room after hours... Pinned her right up against the lockers."

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes the images clearer. Zoe's pale skin against metal. Her brown hair fanned out. The curve of her waist. The sound of her voice.

"Fuck," I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. But the pressure only pushes the fantasy deeper into my brain.

My boxers are already tenting. I've been half-hard since the locker room, fighting it the whole way home. Now, alone in the dark, there's no one to see my shame.

I slide my hand beneath the waistband, gripping myself. My cock is already fully hard, throbbing against my palm. I start stroking slowly, hating myself for it, but unable to stop.

In my mind, I'm there in that changing room. But it's not Daniel. It's me.

I imagine pressing Zoe against those cold metal lockers, her back arching. I see myself gripping her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand while the other explores her body. I can almost feel her skin—that ivory skin I catch glimpses of when she wears those silk pajamas around the apartment.

"Harder," she whispers in my fantasy. Just like Daniel said.

I stroke faster, twisting my hand over the head of my cock, smearing the precum that's already leaking. My hips buck up involuntarily.

In my mind, I spin her around to face the lockers. My hand slides between her legs, finding her wet and ready. She moans, pressing back against me. I imagine the weight of her breasts in my hands, how her nipples would harden against my palms.

"Please," fantasy-Zoe begs. "I need you inside me."

I'm panting now, my hand moving in a frantic rhythm. I reach over to my nightstand, fumbling for the bottle of lube I keep there. The cool liquid makes my strokes slicker, faster. The wet sounds fill the quiet room.

I imagine pushing into her from behind, her pussy tight and hot around my cock. I can almost hear her gasps, imagine her pushing back against me, demanding more.

"Harder," she says again. "Fuck me harder."

My back arches off the bed as I stroke myself furiously. I'm so close. My free hand grips the sheets, twisting them in my fist. The fantasy shifts—now she's on her knees, looking up at me with those dark eyes, her lips wrapped around my cock. Now she's on her back, legs spread wide for me, touching herself as she waits.

"Matt," she moans in my mind. "Matt, please..."

That does it. I come with a strangled groan, my cock pulsing as cum shoots across my stomach and chest. My whole body tightens, then goes slack. For several seconds, I just lie there, breathing hard, riding the aftershocks.

Then reality crashes back in.

I just jerked off thinking about my roommate. My bitchy, self-centered roommate who I can barely stand most days. Who hooks up with guys like Daniel and then complains about them over breakfast.

I grab tissues from the nightstand and clean myself up, disgust replacing the pleasure. What the hell is wrong with me? This can't happen again. I need to get my shit together.

But as I roll over, burying my face in my pillow, I know I'm lying to myself. The image of Zoe against those lockers isn't going anywhere. It's burned into my brain now, waiting for the next time I'm alone in the dark.

Since learning about Matt's... private activities, I've been avoiding him. Three days of elaborate scheduling to make sure we're never home at the same time. I'm not ready to deal with whatever the hell is happening between us.

Tonight was going fine until I realized my lucky black bra was still in the dryer. I have a date with Luis tomorrow, and that bra is basically a guarantee of good sex. I need it.

It's nearly one in the morning. The apartment is dark and silent. Matt's probably asleep. I cinch my towel tighter around my chest and creep down the hallway, wincing at each creak of the floorboards. The basement laundry room is four flights down, and there's no way I'm getting dressed just for a two-minute errand.

The stairwell is cold against my bare feet. I hurry, one hand clutching my towel, the other trailing along the wall. The laundry room door squeaks as I push it open, and the fluorescent lights flicker on automatically, harsh and unforgiving.

I spot my clothes immediately, bunched up in the dryer I was using earlier. Tugging the door open, I bend down to reach inside, focused on finding that damn bra.

That's when it happens.

A sudden draft hits my back, colder than before. The towel, which I thought was secure, slips completely. For a second, I don't even notice, my fingers just brushing the black lace.

Then I hear it. A sharp intake of breath. Not one, but two people.

I stand up straight, instantly aware of the air against every inch of my naked skin. The horror hits me in a wave as I turn to see Matt frozen in the doorway, his gym buddy Michael right behind him.

They're both staring. Michael's mouth is actually hanging open, his eyes wide with shock. But it's Matt's face that stops my heart. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide as they rake over me—my breasts, my stomach, the curve of my hips, between my legs. There's nothing polite or embarrassed in that look. It's pure, undiluted hunger.

For one endless moment, nobody moves. I'm paralyzed, caught between mortification and something else—something hot and electric that shoots through me when I meet Matt's eyes.

Then survival instincts kick in. I snatch the towel from the floor, clutching it to my chest, but it's too late. They've seen everything. Every. Fucking. Thing.

"Get out!" The words tear from my throat, but they're directed entirely at Matt. I barely register Michael's presence. It's Matt's gaze that's burning me alive, Matt who's seen me naked, Matt whose stare is making my skin flush with something that isn't just embarrassment.

Neither of them moves fast enough. I push past them, shoulder checking Matt hard enough to make him stumble back. His arm brushes mine, and even that slight contact sends a jolt through my body.

I run up the stairs, heart pounding, towel clutched around me like armor. But even as I flee, the image of his face—that raw, unguarded look of desire—is seared into my memory.

And worse, much worse, is the traitorous heat pooling low in my belly, the undeniable thrill that shot through me when I saw how badly he wanted me.

This is a disaster. A complete fucking disaster.

I can't stop pacing.

An hour after the laundry room disaster, and my skin still feels electric, like every nerve ending is exposed. I've changed into leggings and an oversized t-shirt, but it doesn't help. I keep reliving the moment—the cold air on my naked body, the shock in Michael's eyes, and that look on Matt's face.

That fucking look.

I've seen desire before. I've seen lust and hunger in men's eyes. But this was different—raw and unfiltered, like he'd been starving for months and I was a feast laid out before him.

The apartment is too quiet. I know Matt's in his room; I heard him come back twenty minutes after me. He's probably hoping I'll go to sleep and we can pretend this never happened. But I can't let this go. I can't sit with this burning sensation under my skin.

I position myself in the hallway outside his door, waiting. My heart hammers against my ribs. What am I even doing? What am I going to say?

His door finally opens. Matt steps out, freezing when he sees me. He's changed into sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt that clings to his chest. His hair is damp—he must have showered. The thought of him naked under running water sends another jolt through me.

"What the hell was that?" I demand, but my voice betrays me, coming out breathless and shaky instead of angry.

He won't meet my eyes. "It was an accident," he mutters, staring at a point past my shoulder. "We didn't know you'd be down there."

"Not that," I say, stepping closer. "The way you looked at me."

His jaw tightens, and I watch the muscles in his throat work as he swallows.

"I didn't—"

"Don't lie." I'm close enough now that I can smell his soap, something clean and sharp. "You looked at me like you wanted to devour me."

He takes a step back, his broad shoulders hitting the wall. "Zoe, I'm sorry. It was wrong. I shouldn't have—"

But the anger that fueled me this far is dissolving, replaced by something more dangerous—a confession I can't hold back.

"The look on your face... I just..." My voice drops, all pretense gone. "You have no idea what you're doing to me. This is your fault. I'm so fucking turned on right now, and it's your fault."

The confession hangs between us. Matt goes completely still, his eyes finally, finally meeting mine. They're dark, pupils dilated, and I can see him fighting to maintain control.

"It was..." he starts, and his voice is so low I have to lean in to hear it. His gaze drops to the floor, his jaw clenched tight. "It was a lot. For me, too."

The admission hits me like a physical touch. Five simple words that confirm what I saw in his eyes—he wants me. Has been wanting me. My roommate, who's watched me parade dates through our apartment for months, who's listened to me complain about mediocre sex with forgettable men, has been wanting me all this time.

The hallway feels too narrow suddenly, the air too thick. I'm acutely aware of how close we're standing, how easy it would be to close the distance between us.

But I don't. And neither does he. We just stand there, breathing the same air, the confession hanging between us like a live wire.

I walk away before either of us can say anything else, retreating to my bedroom and closing the door with a soft click. My fingers are trembling as I lean my back against it, letting out a long, shaky breath.

What the fuck was that?

I slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest. I've never lost control like that before. Never just blurted out how I'm feeling, especially not about sex. Sex is something I orchestrate, something I use. It's not something that uses me.

But right now, I feel used up. Wrung out. Just from a look and a few muttered words.

I push myself up and crawl into bed, not bothering to turn off the lights. My sheets smell freshly laundered—from the same load I was retrieving when everything went sideways. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what's happening.

Matt saw me naked. Completely naked. The look on his face keeps flashing through my mind—that stunned hunger, like he'd been struck. And instead of feeling violated or embarrassed, I feel... powerful. Desperate. Turned on beyond reason.

This isn't me. I don't get all hot and bothered over some guy's reaction. Especially not Matt's. He's my roommate, for god's sake. The judgmental brick wall I've been living with for a year. The silent observer to my parade of disappointing hookups.

I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. This is bad. Really bad. Because that confrontation in the hallway crossed a line we can't un-cross. I admitted I wanted him. He admitted he wanted me back. We're standing on the edge of something that could make living together impossible.

But I can't stop thinking about it. About him. His broad shoulders against the wall. The tension in his jaw. The way he couldn't look at me and then couldn't look away. How many times has he looked at me like that when I wasn't paying attention?

I roll over, burying my face in my pillow. My whole body feels like it's on fire. I could text someone right now—I have at least three guys who would come over at this hour, no questions asked. But the thought leaves me cold. I don't want them. I want...

I want the one person who's seen through my bullshit all along. Who watches me with those quiet, judging eyes. Whose approval I've never had and suddenly desperately want.

What is happening to me?

I've built my life around keeping men at arm's length. Using them before they can use me. Making sure I never need anyone. And now I'm lying here aching for my roommate, coming apart because he muttered five words in a darkened hallway.

My carefully constructed world is cracking. All my rules and walls and snarky deflections are useless against the raw honesty of that moment. For the first time in years, I've shown someone exactly how I feel, and he didn't laugh or take advantage. He just... met me there.

Part of me hates this vulnerability. Hates how out of control I feel. But another part—a part I barely recognize—is thrilled by it. Exhilarated. Like I've been sleepwalking through my hookups until now, and I'm finally, terrifyingly awake.

I have absolutely no idea what happens next. Tomorrow morning, we'll have to face each other across the kitchen counter. Pretend we can go back to normal after this? The thought is laughable.

What I do know is that I won't be the one to make the next move. I've exposed too much already. If anything happens between us, it has to be his choice. His move.

I just hope he makes it soon, because I'm burning alive in this bed, and I don't know how much longer I can stand it.

I slept fitfully, dreams punctuated by flashes of Matt's face in the hallway. Morning brought no clarity—just the awkward dance of avoiding each other in the kitchen, muttering short greetings before retreating to our separate corners.

By afternoon, I needed to wash away the tension. The hot shower was exactly what I needed, steam filling the bathroom as I let the water pound against my skin. I stayed under the spray longer than necessary, trying to clear my head.

I shut off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel to dry my hair. The bathroom mirror had fogged completely, hiding my reflection—probably for the best. I couldn't bear to see the confusion written across my face.

With my attention focused on rubbing the towel against my wet hair, I didn't realize I'd forgotten to lock the door. I didn't hear the apartment door open and close, didn't register footsteps approaching until—

"Hey are you in— oh my god!"

Isabella's voice cut through the steamy air as the bathroom door swung partway open. I jerked around, instinctively covering myself with my arms, but it was too late. Her eyes went wide, taking in my naked body for a split second before she slammed the door shut.

"I'm so sorry!" Her voice came muffled through the door. "I should have knocked! I'm such an idiot!"

My heart was racing, adrenaline flooding my system. I quickly wrapped the towel around myself, securing it tightly.

"It's fine!" I called back, trying to sound casual despite my annoyance. "You just startled me."

"I have your spare key, remember? I thought we were getting lunch." Isabella sounded mortified. "I'll wait in the living room. Take your time. God, I'm so embarrassed."

I heard her footsteps retreat. I leaned against the counter, letting out a deep breath. A week ago, this would have been nothing—just an awkward moment with a friend. But after last night, after the laundry room incident with Matt, my body felt suddenly, strangely public. Exposed. Like everyone was seeing parts of me I usually kept hidden.

I finished drying off and dressed quickly in the bathroom, pulling on jeans and a loose t-shirt. When I emerged, Isabella was perched on the edge of the couch, looking like she wanted to disappear.

"I am so, so sorry," she said immediately. "I should have texted first."

"Seriously, it's fine." I waved it off, trying to play it cool. "Nothing you haven't seen before. We used to change in the same room all the time in college."

She laughed, visibly relaxing. "True. Still, not my finest moment as a friend."

"Forget about it," I said, grabbing my purse. "Let's go get that lunch. I'm starving."

As we headed toward the door, I wondered fleetingly if Matt was home, if he'd heard any of our exchange. But the apartment was quiet, and his shoes weren't by the door.

I pushed all thoughts of Matt away as Isabella and I stepped into the hallway. This was good—getting out, acting normal. Pretending I wasn't coming undone over my roommate. Pretending last night never happened.

If only I could convince myself.

I was halfway through sorting the junk mail from the bills when the lobby door swung open. Isabella walked in, still looking flushed. I nodded at her, ready to retreat back to the apartment. I didn't know her well—just another one of Zoe's friends who occasionally crashed on our couch.

"Matt, you will not believe what I just did," she said, stopping in front of the mailboxes.

I glanced up, not particularly interested. "What's that?"

She leaned in, lowering her voice like we were conspirators. "I accidentally walked in on Zoe in the bathroom. Totally nude." She covered her face with her hands. "I'm so mortified."

My stomach clenched. I forced myself to look casual, shuffling the envelopes in my hand. "That's... unfortunate."

"I mean, I've known her since college, but still. So awkward." Isabella laughed nervously, then her expression shifted. "But my god, that girl has a body like a classical painting."

I froze, my fingers tightening on the mail.

"Her skin is flawless," Isabella continued, seemingly unaware of my reaction. "Like, actually flawless. Not Instagram-filter flawless. Real flawless." She shook her head. "I should be a better friend and not notice these things, but seriously. She looks like she should be hanging in a museum."

The mail crumpled in my grip. I could see it—Zoe stepping out of the shower, water beading on her skin, steam rising around her. Not the crude image Daniel had painted at the gym, but something more intimate. More real.

"You okay?" Isabella asked, finally noticing my silence.

"Fine," I managed. "Just... remembered something."

"Right. Well, we're headed out to lunch. You want to join?"

"No," I said, too quickly. "Thanks."

I turned away, needing to escape before she could see what was happening to me. My shorts wouldn't hide it much longer. The image Isabella had painted was burning into my brain, mixing with the memory of Zoe in the laundry room, of her confronting me in the hallway afterward.

*I'm so fucking turned on right now, and it's your fault.*

Her words echoed in my head as I pushed past Isabella, muttering something about being late. I needed to get upstairs. Needed to be alone.

The image wouldn't leave me—Zoe, naked, perfect, her skin wet and gleaming. But now it wasn't just her body I was seeing. It was her eyes when she'd cornered me in the hallway, dark with something I couldn't name. Something that matched the feeling clawing at my chest.

I took the stairs two at a time, my breathing heavy, the mail forgotten in my hand. I had to get to my room before she and Isabella left. Before anyone could see what she was doing to me without even trying.

The classical painting. Flawless skin. I could almost feel it under my hands.

This time, I couldn't fight it. Didn't want to.

I crashed through the apartment door, spitting mad. Isabella's stammered apology still echoed in my ears. Walking in on me naked? Seriously? I needed to have a word with that girl about boundaries.

I stalked down the hallway, towel clutched around me, my wet hair dripping down my back. I needed to find Matt. After that confrontation in the hallway, things had been unbearable. The way he'd looked at me in the laundry room... I couldn't stop thinking about it. I couldn't stop thinking about him. And it was driving me insane.

His bedroom door was ajar. I pushed it open without knocking.

"Matt, we need to—"

The words died in my throat.

He was sprawled on his bed, shorts pushed down his thighs, hand wrapped around his cock. His back arched slightly off the mattress, muscles tense, eyes screwed shut. He was completely lost in whatever fantasy was playing behind those closed lids.

Until he heard me.

His eyes flew open, locking with mine. For a heartbeat, nobody moved. His hand froze. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. My entire body flushed hot then cold.

"I—" he started, then stopped.

I should have backed away. Should have apologized. Should have done anything except stand there, staring.

"I was thinking about you," he said finally, voice rough. He didn't move to cover himself. Just lay there, exposed, vulnerable in a way I'd never seen him before.

Something shifted inside me. Some last barrier crumbled. I'd spent so long keeping men at a safe distance, playing games, staying in control. But seeing Matt like this—raw, honest, no power plays—made something snap.

A slow smile spread across my face as I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me.

"Good," I said, the word barely more than a purr.

I moved toward the bed, dropping to my knees beside him. His eyes never left mine, dark with equal parts shame and hunger.

"Because seeing you like this..." I whispered, "I feel like I'm going to lose my mind." I leaned closer, my lips nearly touching his ear. "I need you to fuck me. Now."

His breathing quickened, but he didn't move.

"I've been thinking about your cock inside me for days," I continued, each word deliberately chosen to shatter his control. "I want you to pin me down and fuck me until I scream. Until I can't remember my own name."

A sound ripped from his throat—half groan, half growl.

"I want you to—"

I never finished. His hands shot out, grabbing my arms. In one fluid motion, he pulled me onto the bed, flipping our positions until I was underneath him. My towel came loose in the process, leaving me naked beneath him.

"I'll fuck you so hard," he muttered, eyes dark and wild.

His mouth crashed down on mine. There was nothing gentle about it. No romance, no tenderness—just pure, raw need. His tongue pushed past my lips as his hands gripped my wrists, pinning them above my head. My body arched up against him instinctively.

He broke the kiss to yank his t-shirt over his head. I'd seen him shirtless before, but never like this—never with his pupils blown wide, never with his chest heaving, never with his focus entirely, fiercely on me.

I reached for his shorts, shoving them down his hips. His cock sprang free, hard and thick, already leaking at the tip. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking once, twice.

"Fuck," he hissed, eyes closing briefly.

"That's the idea," I said, spreading my legs wider.

He looked down at me, hesitating for just a moment. "Are you—"

"If you ask if I'm sure, I swear to god—"

He silenced me by pushing two fingers inside me. I was already wet—had been since the moment I'd walked in on him. I moaned, hips lifting off the bed.

"Jesus," he muttered. "You're soaked."

I couldn't form words, could only whimper as his thumb found my clit. It was too much and not enough. I needed more. Needed him.

"Please," I gasped, the word foreign on my tongue. I never begged. Never.

He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself between my thighs. I felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against me. There was a second of resistance, and then he pushed inside in one hard thrust.

I cried out, my body stretching around him. He was bigger than I'd expected, filling me completely. For a moment, neither of us moved, both adjusting to the overwhelming sensation.

Then he began to move, and thought became impossible.

Each thrust was deep and hard, driving me into the mattress. His hands pinned mine above my head, his weight nearly crushing me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting each thrust with one of my own.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, his voice barely recognizable. "To be fucked like this?"

"Yes," I gasped as he hit something inside me that made sparks shoot up my spine. "God, yes."

He released my hands to grip my hips, angling me up to thrust even deeper. I clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, leaving crescent marks I knew would still be there tomorrow.

There was no finesse, no technique—just raw, animal fucking. The bed frame slammed against the wall with each thrust. I'd have bruises tomorrow from his fingers, from the force of his body against mine. I didn't care.

I felt myself tightening around him, the tension building. My thighs began to shake. "I'm close," I managed.

He slid his hand between our bodies, fingers finding my clit. One rough circle, two, and I shattered, my orgasm hitting me like a freight train. I cried out, back arching off the bed, inner muscles clenching around him.

He groaned, thrusts becoming erratic. "Fuck, Zoe, I'm—"

He pulled out at the last second, his cum hot against my stomach. His arms gave out and he collapsed beside me, both of us gasping for breath.

For several minutes, we just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Reality slowly filtered back in. I'd just had sex with my roommate. My younger roommate. My judgmental, brooding, infuriating roommate.

And it had been the most intense sexual experience of my life.

I turned my head to look at him. His eyes were closed, throat working as he swallowed. A thin sheen of sweat covered his chest. He looked wrecked.

I wondered what happened now. If things would be weird. If I'd just made a massive mistake.

But as my breathing steadied and my heart rate returned to normal, I realized I didn't regret it. Not one bit.

What I did feel was an unfamiliar vulnerability. A dangerous awareness that what had just happened wasn't like my usual hookups. This wasn't just sex. This was...something else. Something that terrified me.

I should get up, I thought. Should go back to my room, create some distance, regain control of the situation.

Instead, I stayed right where I was, watching him breathe, wondering what the hell we'd just started.

The silence in our apartment over the past three days had been deafening. I'd catch glimpses of Matt – in the kitchen, passing in the hallway – and we'd both freeze like prey animals before one of us would quickly retreat. The memory of his body on mine, inside mine, made my skin flush every time.

This morning, my phone had pinged with a notification. Matt had booked a massage at Vitality Wellness. My studio. My territory.

Now, as I dimmed the lights in treatment room three and arranged my oils, I tried to ignore the pounding of my heart. The door opened, and he stepped in, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe.

"You can undress and lie face down on the table," I said, my professional voice betraying nothing of the heat already building low in my belly. "I'll knock before I come back in."

I slipped out, leaning against the wall outside as I took deep breaths. When I knocked and re-entered, Matt was positioned properly on the table, sheet draped over his lower half, his face resting in the cradle at the top of the table.

"Your shoulder, right?" I asked, pouring oil into my palms and warming it between my hands.

A grunt was his only reply.

I placed my hands on his skin and nearly gasped at the contact. Electricity seemed to arc between us. I began working the muscles of his right shoulder, feeling the knots of tension beneath my fingertips.

"You're carrying a lot of stress here," I murmured, applying deeper pressure.

Another grunt.

I worked in silence after that, moving methodically across his broad back, down his spine. His skin was hot beneath my touch, muscles shifting as I kneaded them. Minutes passed as I worked my way down, then back up again, deliberately avoiding the sheet covering his ass and legs.

I leaned in close, my breasts nearly brushing his back. "Still tight?" I whispered.

The muscles in his back tensed visibly.

"Turn over," I commanded softly.

There was a moment of hesitation before he shifted, carefully maneuvering onto his back. The sheet tented noticeably over his groin. His eyes were open now, dark and wary, watching me.

I stood at the head of the table, beginning to work on his chest muscles, my fingers tracing the definition of his pecs. His nipples hardened under my touch. His breathing quickened.

I moved lower, working his abs, each touch more caress than therapy. The professional pretense was evaporating with every passing second. When my hands reached the edge of the sheet, I paused, looking up to meet his gaze.

Slowly, deliberately, I pulled the sheet away.

His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and already leaking at the tip. My mouth watered at the sight. Without a word, I stepped to the side of the table and began unbuttoning my work shirt.

Matt's eyes widened. "Zoe, we're in your—"

"Last appointment of the day," I said, letting my shirt fall to the floor. I unhooked my bra, freeing my breasts. "And I own the place."

I shimmed out of my yoga pants and underwear in one movement, standing naked beside the massage table. This time, there was no embarrassment in my nudity, no rushing to cover myself. I was in complete control.

I climbed onto the table, straddling his thighs. He remained perfectly still, his hands gripping the edges of the table as if afraid to touch me.

"This time," I said, trailing my fingertips up his cock, "we do it my way."

I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling him throb against my palm. His breathing was ragged now, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Zoe," he managed, his voice strained.

I lifted myself up, positioning his cock at my entrance. I was already wet, had been since he walked in. Slowly, I sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch, until he was buried completely inside me.

"Fuck," he gasped, his head falling back against the table.

I didn't move at first, just savored the fullness, the stretch, the heat of him inside me. In the dim light of the treatment room, with soft music playing and the scent of essential oils in the air, this was my domain. My rules.

I began to move, rolling my hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm. So different from our first time. No frantic pace, no desperation. Just deep, controlled pleasure.

"Look at me," I commanded.

His eyes locked with mine as I rode him, my hands braced on his chest for leverage. I could feel every inch of him sliding in and out of my pussy, hitting spots that made my thighs tremble.

"You feel so fucking good," I whispered, grinding down harder. "So deep inside me."

His hands moved to my hips, but I caught his wrists, pinning them back to the table.

"No touching," I said. "Just lie there and take it."

A groan tore from his throat, part frustration, part arousal. I smiled, power surging through me as I controlled his pleasure, controlled the pace, controlled everything.

I leaned forward, changing the angle so his cock rubbed against my clit with each movement. My breasts hung tantalizingly close to his face, but just out of reach of his mouth. His eyes darkened further, watching them sway with each thrust.

"You want to taste them, don't you?" I taunted, circling my hips, feeling him pulse inside me. "Maybe next time. If you're good."

"Christ, Zoe," he growled, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

I pushed back down, establishing my rhythm again. "I said lie still."

His jaw clenched, muscles straining with the effort to obey. I rewarded him by increasing my pace slightly, my pussy clenching around his cock as I felt my orgasm building.

"That's it," I murmured, my own voice growing breathier. "Just like that."

I released one of his wrists to touch myself, fingers circling my clit as I continued to ride him. His free hand immediately went to my breast, squeezing, thumb brushing over my nipple.

"I didn't say you could touch," I gasped, but made no move to stop him.

"Fuck your rules," he said, voice rough. He pinched my nipple, and a jolt of pleasure shot straight to my core.

I moaned, moving faster now, chasing my release. "I'm close," I whispered. "So close."

"Come on my cock," he urged, thrusting up to meet me despite my earlier command. "Let me feel you come."

His words pushed me over the edge. My orgasm crashed through me in waves, my pussy pulsing around him as I cried out. My thighs shook, my back arched, my entire body consumed by pleasure.

He followed moments later, groaning my name as he pumped his cum deep inside me. I hadn't told him to pull out this time. Hadn't wanted him to.

As we both caught our breath, reality slowly seeped back in. I was still straddling him, his softening cock still inside me, our mingled fluids leaking onto the clean sheets of my massage table.

I climbed off carefully, legs unsteady. Without looking at him, I grabbed tissues from a nearby dispenser, cleaning myself up.

"You can use the shower in the back if you want," I said, slipping back into my professional tone as I reached for my discarded clothes.

He sat up slowly, watching me dress. "Zoe—"

"Your appointment time is up," I cut him off, not ready to face whatever he might say. Not ready to examine the feelings crashing around inside me.

He nodded once, jaw tight. Without another word, he gathered his clothes and headed for the shower.

I listened to the water running, mechanically changing the sheets on the table, putting away the unused oils. My body felt satisfied, but something else—something deeper—remained unresolved.

When Matt emerged, dressed and damp-haired, he paused at the door.

"See you at home?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

As he left, I sank onto my office chair, wondering what the hell I was doing. Sex had always been my shield, my way of keeping emotional distance. But this thing with Matt... it was cracking that shield wide open.

And I had no idea what to do about it.