Coach's Challenge

Chapter 4: The Coach's Challenge

Blackwell Academy's gymnasium never echoed this loud.

It was after hours. The heavy steel doors had long since sealed behind the last student. Fluorescent lights flickered above the polished hardwood floor, and the scent of chalk dust and sweat clung to the air like static. Basketballs were caged. Bleachers empty. Only the low hum of vending machines filled the silence.

Aiden stood center court, shirt discarded, gym shorts riding low on his hips. His abs gleamed under the lights, carved like marble, the product of both discipline and ego.

Across from him, Coach Aria Kane stretched one powerful leg up against the wall, her muscles rippling beneath her tight compression gear. Tank top soaked in sweat, cleavage carved and shameless. A lioness in her element.

She'd challenged him.

Not out loud. Not directly.

But when she blew her whistle in class, barking orders like she was leading a military squad, and when her gaze lingered a little too long on his body as he bent to pick up a medicine ball—he felt it. The challenge in her posture. The crackle in the air between them. The unspoken dare.

He waited.

She turned, smirking as she walked toward him with deliberate swagger. "So, what was that earlier? Thought you could show me up in front of your classmates?"

Aiden shrugged. "I thought you liked a challenge, Coach."

"I like discipline," she snapped, voice sharp as her whipcord frame. "You walk around like you run this school."

He tilted his head, grin slow and arrogant. "Don't I?"

She laughed once—low and dangerous. "You're cocky. You think just because you played with a few teachers, you've got control here?"

His smile froze. Just slightly. "So the rumors are spreading."

"You think I'm stupid?" she said, stepping closer, nostrils flaring. "You think I didn't notice how Helena started stuttering in meetings? Or how Cara wears makeup to hide bruises she doesn't even know she's flaunting?"

He stepped forward too. Close. "Jealous?"

She snorted. "Don't flatter yourself. You couldn't handle me."

"Is that a threat?" he asked, eyes glinting.

"It's a promise," she said, and jabbed a finger into his chest.

He caught her wrist.

And the heat exploded.

She shoved him back, but he didn't resist—just let her push him until his back hit the wall under the bleachers. Her breath was sharp. Heated. Her chest rose and fell with each second of silence.

"You want to hit me?" he murmured.

She narrowed her eyes.

"You want to pin me down and prove something?" His voice dropped lower. "Or do you want me to pin you down and take that fire until you're screaming my name?"

That did it.

She surged forward. Their mouths clashed, not in a kiss but a bite. Teeth, lips, tongues—warring. Her nails raked his chest, and his hand wrapped in her ponytail, yanking her head back to expose her throat.

He bit.

She gasped.

Their clothes peeled away like skin shed under pressure. She was all muscle and sweat and fury. Her sports bra snapped as he pulled it free, revealing two perfect, tan breasts slick with exertion.

"On your knees," he said.

She laughed in his face. "Make me."

So he did.

With a forceful shove to her shoulders, she dropped, knees hitting the polished floor. Her breath was ragged, chest heaving.

He undid his shorts, hard and throbbing already. "Open."

She hesitated.

Then smirked—and took him in one motion, lips stretching wide, tongue flicking against his length. She sucked like she was punishing him. Gagging slightly but never stopping. Her eyes burned into his like a dare.

He groaned, gripping the back of her head, thrusting deeper. She moaned around him.

He pulled out before he came. "Turn around."

She wiped her lips, stood, and bent over the gym bench, slamming her palms against it.

"Condom?" she panted.

"Fuck no."

She hesitated. Just a moment. Then: "Fine. I'm clean. You?"

"Clean," he grunted, lining himself up behind her.

Then he thrust in.

Hard.

She screamed—not in pain, but in shock. Her hands fisted on the bench, legs shaking slightly. He was thick, deeper than she expected. Her thighs braced instinctively, strong and wide, but it wasn't enough. Not against him.

He gripped her hips and pounded into her—raw, merciless. Her moans echoed in the gym, bouncing off the rafters.

"Still think I can't handle you?" he growled.

She looked over her shoulder, hair wild, eyes blazing. "Shut the fuck up and keep going."

So he did.

Harder. Faster.

The wet slap of skin, the squeak of rubber shoes, the creak of metal under the bench. He reached around, pinching her nipple, then slipped two fingers to rub her clit.

"Fuck!" she cried. "Aiden—fuck—yes—!"

Her body trembled. She was close. He felt it.

"Cum for me," he whispered.

She did—violently. Screaming his name, shaking all over.

He wasn't far behind. With a final thrust, he emptied inside her, groaning against her back, biting down on her shoulder to muffle the sound.

They collapsed forward together, panting. Sweat mingling. Breaths ragged.

After a minute, she pulled away, wobbling slightly.

"That didn't mean anything," she said, fixing her hair.

"No," he said, zipping up. "It meant everything."

She turned to glare.

"You'll be back," he added, grabbing his shirt. "They always are."