Chlorine Dreams and Midnight Security Camera Streams

The main pool is finally emptying out when I check my watch—7:45. Fifteen minutes to closing. I make a quick detour to the women's locker room, splashing cold water on my face and checking my appearance. My shoulders are slightly pink from the afternoon sun, and my hair is a tangled mess from chlorine and heat.

Perfect. No one would suspect I have plans.

I wait by the juice bar, pretending to check messages until I see the last lifeguard leave his post. The night cleaning crew won't arrive for another half hour. My window is narrow but definite.

I climb the stairs to the administrative level with deliberate steps, casual but purposeful. Just a member who forgot something in the lost and found. Nothing suspicious.

The upstairs hallway is dimly lit, emergency lights casting long shadows. The pool office door is unlocked, as I'd gambled it would be. I slip inside and close it behind me with a soft click.

The office is small and utilitarian—a desk with a computer, filing cabinets, schedule boards. But what draws me is the large one-way window overlooking the pool. From here, the managers can observe everything while remaining unseen. The thought sends an unexpected thrill through me.

I'm alone. Completely alone in a forbidden space.

I sink into the padded office chair, my heart racing with the transgression. The empty pool below glimmers under low lights, the water still and pristine. I can see everything from up here—every lounger where I've sprawled dramatically over the past year, every spot where Daniel and I have exchanged glances.

Daniel.

My breath catches as I allow myself to finally, fully think about him. The way water rolls down his chest. How his eyes hold mine a beat too long. That infuriating smile.

My hand moves to my thigh almost without conscious direction. The thin fabric of my sundress offers no resistance as I slide it higher, my fingertips tracing idle patterns against my skin. The illicit nature of the moment—being somewhere I shouldn't, doing something I shouldn't—intensifies every sensation.

I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the chair. My fingers continue their journey upward, finding the edge of my bikini bottom. I'm already wet, the fabric damp against my touch. A small gasp escapes my lips as I press harder, the pressure exactly what I need.

I should stop. Someone could come in. But the risk only heightens the arousal coursing through me.

I push the bikini bottom aside, my fingers finding slick heat. I'm soaking wet, my pussy swollen and sensitive. When I circle my clit, my hips jerk involuntarily, and I bite my lip to keep quiet.

Behind my closed eyelids, an image forms. Daniel, watching me. Not with that knowing smile, but with hunger in his eyes. Daniel, seeing me like this—vulnerable and wanting.

"Fuck," I whisper, the word barely audible as I slide two fingers inside myself.

My other hand yanks down my bikini top, freeing my breast. I pinch my nipple, hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to my core. My fingers pump faster, my thumb working my clit in tight circles.

In my fantasy, Daniel approaches. His large hand replaces mine, his fingers thicker, stronger. I arch my back, fucking myself harder, imagining it's him controlling my pleasure, him drawing these desperate sounds from my throat.

I'm close, so close, my muscles tensing as the pressure builds. My fingers are drenched, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Just a little more—

A chill runs down my spine. My eyes snap open, staring at the closed door.

Is someone there?

The room is empty, the door still shut. But something has changed. The air feels different. Charged. As if I'm not alone anymore.

I withdraw my hand quickly, yanking my bikini top back into place. My heart pounds painfully against my ribs. My arousal vanishes, replaced by creeping paranoia.

Was that a shadow moving in the hallway? Did I hear the faintest click of the door closing?

I stand on shaky legs, smoothing down my dress. My body still throbs with unfulfilled need, but now there's a hollow feeling in my stomach. The powerful sensation of being watched lingers, though I can see I'm alone.

Maybe it was nothing. Just my imagination, sparked by the risk of the situation. But as I peer cautiously into the empty hallway, I can't shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted.

I make my way back downstairs with quick, nervous steps, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds. The formerly empty pool deck now feels full of eyes. Watching. Knowing.

By the time I reach the parking lot, my hands are trembling. What if someone saw me? What if it was someone I know?

What if it was Daniel?

I can't sleep.

The digital clock by my bed reads 2:17 AM, its glowing red numbers accusing me of something I can't name. My apartment is silent except for the distant hum of the air conditioner, but my mind won't stop replaying what happened at the pool office.

Someone was there. I'm certain of it now.

I flip onto my side, punching my pillow into submission. The sheets feel too hot, too constraining against my skin. I kick them off and stare at the ceiling, my heart racing with a mixture of lingering paranoia and something else—something I don't want to acknowledge.

Arousal.

What if it was Daniel? What if those dark eyes I've spent a year pretending to avoid were watching me touch myself?

"Fuck," I whisper into the darkness, the same word I'd gasped in the office, but different now—heavier with possibility.

I close my eyes and the office materializes behind my eyelids. But this time, I'm not alone. In this version, the door opens and Daniel steps inside. He doesn't say anything. He just stands there, his powerful frame silhouetted against the hallway light, watching me.

My hand slides between my legs, almost of its own volition. I'm already wet, my pussy slick with need. This isn't like me. I'm always in control, especially with men. I choose when, where, and who. I've never been this desperate, this consumed by wanting someone.

In my fantasy, Daniel closes the door behind him but doesn't approach. His eyes never leave mine as I continue touching myself, my fingers working my clit in slow circles. I can see the bulge growing in his swim shorts, the outline of his hardening cock clear against the thin fabric.

"Don't stop," fantasy-Daniel says, his voice low and commanding. "I want to see you come."

A moan escapes my lips—real, not imagined—as I push two fingers inside myself. My back arches off the mattress. This is so much stronger than anything I've felt with actual men inside me. Just the thought of Daniel watching me, wanting me, stirs something primal and urgent.

I pump my fingers faster, my thumb rubbing hard circles around my clit. In my mind, Daniel moves closer, his hand now stroking his cock through his shorts. I imagine how thick he must be, how it would feel stretching me open.

"You like being watched, don't you?" fantasy-Daniel asks, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. Not his usual smirk, but something darker, hungrier. "You pretend to hate me, but look at how wet you are for me."

"Yes," I gasp aloud to my empty bedroom, answering both real and imagined questions.

I add a third finger, fucking myself harder. My thighs begin to tremble as pressure builds at my core. This isn't the calculated, efficient orgasm I usually give myself. This is messy and desperate and completely out of control.

Fantasy-Daniel moves closer still, until he's standing over me. His hand is inside his shorts now, stroking his bare cock. I can almost see it—thick and hard, the head glistening with pre-cum.

"Look at you," he whispers. "So fucking beautiful when you're desperate."

My free hand grabs my breast, pinching my nipple hard. The jolt of pain-pleasure pushes me closer to the edge. I'm riding my own hand now, hips bucking upward to meet each thrust of my fingers.

In my fantasy, Daniel pulls his cock free, fully erect and magnificent. He strokes himself faster, matching my rhythm.

"I knew you'd be like this," he says. "I've been watching you for a year, wanting to see you fall apart. Show me, Zoe. Show me what you hide from everyone else."

The combination of shame and arousal is intoxicating. I've never wanted to be seen—truly seen—by anyone before. But now the thought of Daniel witnessing my most private moment, stripping away my carefully cultivated bitchiness, pushes me over the edge.

"Fuck, I'm coming," I cry out, my voice too loud in the quiet apartment. My pussy clenches around my fingers, waves of pleasure radiating outward. My body convulses with the force of my orgasm, more powerful than anything I've experienced before.

In my fantasy, Daniel comes too, thick ropes of cum landing on my stomach, marking me as his. The image is so vivid I can almost feel the warm wetness on my skin.

As the aftershocks subside, reality creeps back in. My fingers are soaked, my sheets damp beneath me. I'm alone in my bedroom, panting and trembling from an orgasm triggered by nothing but the thought of a man I've spent a year pretending to despise.

I roll onto my side, curling into myself. The satisfaction is quickly replaced by confusion. This isn't just horniness—it's obsession. One possibility has rewritten everything I thought I knew about myself and what I want.

I grab my phone from the nightstand, tempted to text one of my regulars. Someone safe and predictable who would come over right now if I asked. Someone I could use to scrub Daniel from my system.

But I set the phone down without sending a message. For the first time, I don't want the real thing. I want the fantasy—I want Daniel. And worse, I want him to want me back with the same desperate intensity.

Tomorrow, I need to know for sure if it was him in that office doorway. If those eyes that haunt me tonight really did see me at my most vulnerable.

I need to go back.

I arrive at AquaVitae fifteen minutes earlier than usual, my excuse prepared.

"I think I lost an earring yesterday," I tell the girl at the front desk.

She barely glances up from her phone. "Check the lost and found in the office upstairs."

Perfect. I climb the stairs, my heart pounding against my ribs. I've never been this nervous at the club before. Usually I stride through the place like I own it, but today I feel like an intruder.

The hallway is empty. I push open the office door, half-expecting someone to stop me, but there's no one here. Just the same small room where yesterday I—

I swallow hard and close the door behind me. I need to know if it was Daniel who saw me. I can't keep functioning with just the possibility hanging over me.

I make a show of looking around the floor and desk, in case anyone walks in. "Lost earring," I mutter to myself, "has to be here somewhere."

But my eyes keep drifting to the dark corner of the room where a small desk holds three security monitors. I hadn't noticed them yesterday in my... distracted state. The screens show grainy black-and-white feeds of different areas of the club, cycling every few seconds.

Main pool area. Empty. Front desk. The bored receptionist scrolls on her phone. Men's locker room entrance. Nothing. Women's locker room entrance. Also empty. Hallways, equipment room, emergency exits.

I'm about to turn away when the feed changes again. Men's locker room showers.

And there he is. Daniel.

My breath catches. He's alone, leaning against the white tile wall. He's fully clothed in his usual black swim shorts, but there's something in his posture—a tension, an intensity—that makes me lean closer to the screen.

His head is tilted back slightly, eyes closed. One hand braces against the wall while the other...

Oh.

His right hand is inside his shorts, moving slowly but deliberately. His jaw is tight, his breathing visibly deep even in the grainy footage.

He's touching himself. In the club. Just like I did yesterday.

I should look away. I should walk out right now and pretend I never saw this. But I'm frozen, watching as his movements become more focused. His hand works faster beneath the fabric. I can see his chest rise and fall with increasingly rapid breaths.

This is completely private. Not performance. Not meant for anyone's eyes. And yet I'm seeing all of it.

The confident smirk he always wears is gone, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. His face contorts slightly—not in the exaggerated way men sometimes perform their pleasure, but in that authentic, almost pained expression of building release.

The tables have completely turned. Yesterday, I was exposed, possibly to him. Now I'm watching him in his most private moment. We're unwitting equals in this secret exchange of vulnerability.

I should feel guilty for watching. Instead, I feel powerful. Connected to him in a way I've never been with anyone else.

On screen, Daniel's movement becomes more urgent. His free hand clenches into a fist against the tile. His mouth opens slightly. I lean closer still, as if I might hear him through the silent feed.

He's close. I can tell from the tension in his shoulders, the rhythm of his hand, the way his head presses back harder against the wall. I wonder who he's thinking about.

Is it me?

The thought sends an electric current straight between my legs. Could he be replaying yesterday in his mind, just as I did last night?

Suddenly, his body goes rigid. His hand stops moving, pressing hard against himself. His expression is intense, almost pained, before melting into relief. I've seen enough men come to recognize the moment of release, even through the grainy security footage.

I step back from the monitor like it's burned me, the reality of what I've just done crashing down. I've invaded his privacy completely. Watched his most intimate moment without consent.

Just as someone—maybe him—watched me.

The monitor cycles to another camera view. The spell breaks. I turn and flee the office, not bothering to maintain my earring pretense. No one stops me as I hurry down the stairs, through the lobby, out the front doors.

I need to get to my car. Now.

I reach my car on unsteady legs and fumble with my keys, dropping them twice before managing to unlock the door. I slide behind the wheel, slam the door shut, and just sit there, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.

"Breathe," I whisper to myself. "Just breathe."

My heart hammers against my ribs. My skin feels too tight, too hot. I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse because all I can see is Daniel—head tilted back, jaw clenched, hand moving rhythmically inside his shorts. That look on his face when he came, stripped of all pretense and cockiness. Raw. Real.

"Fuck," I whisper, pressing my forehead against the steering wheel.

The air conditioning blasts cold against my flushed skin, but it does nothing to cool the heat building inside me. I haven't even turned the car on.

My mind races, replaying everything. Yesterday in the office, my fingers between my legs. That strange feeling of being watched. Then today, watching him do exactly the same thing. The symmetry of it all hits me like a physical force.

He saw me. Now I've seen him.

We're even. Connected by mutual exposure.

I expect to feel shame—that's my normal response after hooking up with someone, that immediate regret and irritation. But what rushes through me instead is something entirely different: power. Excitement. A heady combination of thrill and arousal that makes my breath short.

This isn't just me being caught in a vulnerable moment anymore. It's a game we're both playing, even if he doesn't know I've made my move yet.

I laugh suddenly, the sound strange and breathless in the quiet car. All those months of rolling my eyes at him, of performative annoyance, of carefully crafted bitchiness—it all seems ridiculous now. Childish.

What I feel instead is pure, undeniable want. Not the casual desire I feel for the interchangeable men I usually date. This is something else—a hunger that starts deep in my belly and spreads outward until my whole body thrums with it.

I want him. Not just his body, though God knows that's part of it. I want to break through that smug exterior the way I just saw on the monitor. I want to be the cause of that unguarded expression on his face.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sophia, asking if I want to meet for dinner. I can't possibly be around other people right now, not when I'm vibrating with this new energy. I text back a quick excuse about not feeling well.

It's not entirely a lie. I do feel sick—sick with want. Dizzy with it.

I finally start the car, my hands steadier now. The game has changed completely. I'm no longer the reluctant, defensive player I was yesterday. Today, I'm all in.

Tomorrow, I'll see him by the pool again. But this time, when our eyes meet, everything will be different. He doesn't know it yet, but we've crossed a line. There's no going back now.

I pull out of the parking lot, already planning my next move.

The juice bar is my refuge after a hard swim. My muscles ache in that satisfying way that comes from pushing through fatigue. I gulp down water as I wait for my protein smoothie, letting my gaze drift across the gleaming chrome and polished wood of the bar.

Then I spot her—Sophia, Zoe's best friend. I know her from around the club, always trailing in Zoe's wake, laughing too loudly at her barbed comments. She catches my eye and, to my surprise, slides onto the stool next to mine.

"Daniel, right?" she says, her voice pitched low like we're conspirators.

I nod, curious. "That's me."

Something in her expression makes me uneasy—a mischievous glint that reminds me of a cat with a cornered mouse. She leans in closer, the scent of her perfume sharp and floral.

"I have to tell someone or I'll burst," she says, pulling out her phone. "You won't believe what Zoe accidentally sent me last night."

She angles her phone toward me, though the screen is dark. "A video," she whispers. "Of herself. You know... taking care of business."

My throat goes dry. I manage what I hope is a casual shrug. "People make mistakes with technology."

"No, you don't understand," Sophia continues, her voice a delighted hiss. "Zoe's always so perfect, so cold. But in this video..." She trails off, shaking her head. "I never knew she could look like that. All flushed and desperate. And the noises she made—these little whimpers when she got close. Then at the end, this surprised gasp, like she shocked herself with how good it felt."

A woman hands me my smoothie. I murmur thanks, but I barely see her. In my mind, I'm back in that office doorway, watching Zoe's fingers move, her head thrown back, her lips parted.

"You can't tell her I told you," Sophia says, nudging me with her elbow. "Our little princess would die of embarrassment. But I just had to tell someone. Can you believe it? Ice Queen Zoe has a wild side."

I take a sip of my smoothie but taste nothing. My body temperature has spiked, sweat breaking out across my back that has nothing to do with my workout.

"I won't say anything," I manage.

Sophia studies my face, and something shifts in her expression. Her playful smile fades, replaced by a more calculating look.

"You know," she says slowly, "she talks about you sometimes."

"Does she?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears.

"Mmhmm. She pretends you annoy her, but..." Sophia shrugs one shoulder. "I know her better than anyone. There's something there."

My smoothie sits forgotten on the bar. I feel like I've been hit by a truck. All those months of our silent orbit around each other, the eye rolls, the smirks—and underneath it all, this current pulling us toward each other.

"Anyway," Sophia says, standing up. "I should go. Just thought you might find that interesting." She slides her phone back into her pocket, smiling like she's just done us both a favor.

I watch her go, unable to move. The fantasy I've been nursing since yesterday has just crystallized into something I can almost touch. Zoe isn't just the untouchable woman by the pool anymore. She's flesh and blood and desire. She whimpers when she comes. She gets surprised by her own pleasure.

My playful confidence, the persona I've cultivated since my transformation from awkward teen to desirable man, evaporates like water on hot pavement. What replaces it is something more primal. More urgent.

I need to see her again. Not across the pool deck, but up close. Alone.

I leave my half-finished smoothie on the bar and head for the locker room, my mind already racing ahead to tonight, after closing, when the club will be empty except for staff. When I might find my way back to that upstairs office, where this all began.

I know it's pathetic to keep coming back here. But after yesterday, after seeing him like that on the security monitor—his strong hand working himself, his head thrown back against the shower tile—I haven't been able to think of anything else.

The club closed an hour ago. The night cleaning crew won't arrive for another two hours. I told myself I just needed to see the office one more time, to relive that rush of power I felt watching him. But that's a lie. I'm here because I can't stop thinking about his hands. His mouth. The way his wet shorts clung to him by the pool.

The office door is ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. My heart stutters. Someone's in there.

I should leave. But instead, I move closer, drawn by a magnetic pull I can't resist. I push the door open slowly, silently.

Daniel.

He's sitting in the manager's chair—the same one I used—his back to the door. His broad shoulders tense with concentration. I see the rhythmic movement of his arm, hear the soft intake of breath that tells me exactly what he's doing.

He's here for the same reason I am.

I should back away. This isn't part of the game. But my feet won't move, and a small gasp escapes me before I can stop it.

He spins around, eyes wide with shock. For a moment, we're both frozen—me in the doorway, him with his hand still gripping himself, his hardness unmistakable despite his attempt to conceal it.

I've practiced this scenario in my mind a hundred times since yesterday—what I would say if we ever acknowledged this thing between us. But now all my clever lines desert me. All I can manage is raw truth.

"This is your fault," I whisper, my voice catching on the words. "Look at me. I'm a complete mess because of you."

His surprise fades, replaced by something darker, hungrier. He stands, adjusting himself without shame, and moves toward me with deliberate steps.

"A mess?" he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "You look perfect to me."

He's close now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His fingertips brush my cheek with unexpected gentleness, and I hate how much I crave his touch.

"I've been thinking about what it would feel like to have you on your knees for me, right here," he says, holding my gaze.

My breath catches. The raw honesty of his words strips away any pretense. This isn't flirtation or seduction. It's acknowledgment of what we both want.

In response, I sink to my knees. His sharp intake of breath tells me he didn't expect me to surrender so quickly. It's a power I didn't know I had—to surprise him, to make him want me as desperately as I want him.

I look up at him, my hands reaching for his waistband. His eyes never leave mine as I free him. He's thick and hard, already slick at the tip.

"You were thinking of me," I say, not a question.

"Ever since I saw you in here," he admits. "I can't get the image out of my head."

I take him into my mouth then, a rush of satisfaction flooding me at his groan. His hand twines in my hair, not pushing, just holding on like I'm keeping him anchored to the earth.

I work him slowly at first, learning the feel of him, the taste of him. His breathing grows ragged as I take him deeper, my tongue swirling around his length. I'm no longer thinking about power games or who's winning. There's only this moment, the weight of him against my tongue, the trembling in his thighs as he fights to maintain control.

"Your mouth," he gasps. "Fuck, Zoe. Better than I imagined."

His words send a pulse of heat through me. I moan around him, the vibration making him curse. His grip in my hair tightens, guiding me now, setting a rhythm that grows more urgent.

I look up at him through my lashes. His face is transformed by pleasure, all his usual playful confidence stripped away. This is Daniel laid bare, vulnerable in his need. For me.

"I'm close," he warns, his voice strained.

I don't pull away. I want this—want to taste his surrender, to know I've made him lose control. I work him faster, my hand joining my mouth, twisting slightly in the way that makes his breath hitch.

When he comes, it's with a shudder that runs through his entire body. He pulses against my tongue, hot and salty, his hand cradling the back of my head in a gesture that feels oddly tender. I take everything he gives, swallowing him down, feeling strangely powerful despite being on my knees.

After, when his breathing steadies, he pulls me to my feet. His eyes are different now—darker, more serious. His thumb traces my lower lip, still swollen from having him in my mouth.

"Your turn," he says, and the promise in those two words makes me shiver.

But before he can sink to his knees, we hear it—voices in the hallway. The cleaning crew, arriving early.

We freeze, then scramble to fix our clothing. The moment fractures, but something has fundamentally changed between us. As we slip out the back exit, avoiding detection, Daniel catches my hand.

"Tomorrow," he says. It's not a question. "The men's shower room. After closing."

I should say no. I should walk away. But the hunger in his eyes mirrors my own, and I find myself nodding.

"Tomorrow," I agree, already anticipating what comes next.

The first time with Daniel in the office had ignited something primal in both of us. What followed was a weeklong blur of stolen moments—his mouth between my thighs in the supply closet, my hands gripping his shoulders in the empty yoga studio, both of us panting and desperate in the staff break room after hours.

But tonight is different. The men's locker room has become our sanctuary, the place we return to again and again. The sheer size of it—cavernous, tiled, and hollow—makes every sound echo. Every gasp. Every moan. Every whispered command.

I hear the heavy door open behind me. I don't turn around. We've developed a ritual these past few days. I arrive first, waiting in the darkness, my heart hammering with anticipation.

"You're early," Daniel says, his voice bouncing off the tile walls.

"I couldn't wait," I admit, hating how eager I sound.

He doesn't respond with words. Instead, his footsteps echo as he approaches, each deliberate step making my skin prickle with awareness. His hands find my hips, thumbs pressing into the small of my back.

"I've been thinking about you all day," he murmurs against my neck.

"Liar," I say, but there's no bite to it. His teeth graze the sensitive spot below my ear, and I shiver.

"Take off your clothes."

I comply without hesitation, stripping efficiently in the dim light. He watches, silent and hungry, as I stand naked before him. There's something thrilling about being completely exposed while he remains fully dressed.

"Turn around," he commands. "Hands on the wall."

I face the cool tile, placing my palms flat against it. Behind me, I hear the rustle of clothing, the soft metallic sound of his belt buckle, the tear of a condom wrapper.

"Spread your legs wider."

I comply, arching my back slightly, knowing exactly how to position myself to drive him crazy. His approving groan confirms I've succeeded.

His hand slides from my shoulder blade down to the small of my back, then lower, fingers slipping between my legs from behind. I'm already wet for him—have been since I walked into this room—and he makes a sound of satisfaction when he feels it.

"Always so ready for me," he says, his voice rougher now. His fingers explore me, circling and teasing but never giving me quite enough. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want," I mutter against the tile.

He withdraws his hand. "Say it."

I clench my jaw, stubborn even in my desire. "I want you to fuck me."

"How?" He presses against me from behind, his cock hard against the curve of my ass. Not entering me, just letting me feel what's coming.

"Hard," I breathe. "From behind. Like this."

His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back gently. "Like you're mine?"

The question makes my chest tight. "Yes," I whisper, because in this moment, it's true.

He enters me in one smooth thrust, and the breath leaves my lungs in a gasp. The stretch and fullness of him is exquisite, familiar now but no less overwhelming. He doesn't start slow—we're past that pretense. His hips drive forward with purpose, each thrust pushing me against the cold tile.

"Fuck," he groans, his hands gripping my waist. "So tight. So perfect."

The contrast heightens everything—his hot skin against my back, the cold tile against my breasts and cheek, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the empty space. He shifts his angle, hitting deeper, and I cry out.

"There," I gasp. "Right there."

He obeys, maintaining the exact position that makes me see stars. One hand slides from my hip to between my legs, fingers finding my clit with practiced precision. The dual sensation is almost too much.

"I want to feel you come on my cock," he says, his voice low and urgent in my ear. "Let me feel it, Zoe."

The sound of my name on his lips pushes me closer to the edge. His thrusts grow more insistent, more desperate. We've done this enough times now that our bodies have learned each other—he knows exactly how to move, where to touch, what pressure to apply.

"I'm close," I warn, my voice breaking.

His fingers work faster, his hips never losing rhythm. "Come for me," he demands. "Now."

My orgasm hits like a wave crashing over me, intense and consuming. My inner walls clench around him, pulsing with pleasure, and I cry out his name, not caring how it echoes through the room.

He follows immediately, driven over the edge by the feel of my release. His thrusts become erratic, his grip on my hip almost painful as he buries himself deep and comes with a low, guttural groan that vibrates through my body.

For a moment, we stay frozen like that, connected, panting, my cheek pressed against the cool tile. Then he withdraws slowly, turning me to face him. In the dim light, I can see the sheen of sweat on his chest, the intensity in his eyes as they meet mine.

Something passes between us then—something beyond the physical release we've just shared. It's a moment of recognition, of seeing and being seen. It scares me, this glimpse of something more than lust, and I look away first.

"We should go," I say, reaching for my clothes. "Security makes rounds at 11."

He nods, but doesn't move immediately, watching me dress with an expression I can't quite read.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asks as we prepare to leave separately.

I hesitate, suddenly aware of how quickly this has become a routine. How much I look forward to these encounters. How empty my bed feels on nights when we don't meet.

"Yes," I say finally, because despite the warning bells in my head, I know I'll be back. "Tomorrow."

As I slip out into the night, I tell myself this is still just physical. Just two bodies seeking pleasure in the dark. But a small voice in the back of my mind whispers that I'm lying to myself—that what's happening between Daniel and me has already grown beyond the confines of these clandestine meetings.

I push the thought away, not ready to face what it might mean. Tomorrow, I'll return to the comfort of simple, uncomplicated desire. The rest can wait.