Chapter 5: Instructions
She watched him, the smile not leaving her face. It wasn't mocking. It was patient, like she was waiting for a fog to clear. “You’re thinking too hard,” she said. “This isn’t a theoretical physics exam. It’s simpler than that.”
“It doesn’t feel simple.”
“It is. You look. You want. You touch.” She took a step closer, closing the distance he’d carefully maintained. The clean, athletic scent of her was stronger now, mixed with the faint, honest smell of her train journey. “We start with the looking and the wanting. We’ve done that. Now we do the touching.”
His breath hitched. She was so close he could see the fine texture of her skin, the slight sheen of sweat at her collarbone. Her crop top exposed the full, sculpted panel of her abdomen. It wasn’t just defined; it was engineered, each muscle group distinct and visible even at rest.
“Go on,” she murmured.
His hand, as if disconnected from his body, lifted. It hovered in the space between them, trembling. The gap was inches. It felt like miles.
Eva’s own hand snapped up, much faster. She didn’t slap it away. She caught his wrist, her grip firm and warm. He flinched at the sudden contact.
“Relax,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, practical register. “You’re not going to break me. Here.”
She guided his hand forward. The backs of his fingers brushed the soft cotton of her hoodie, which she’d tied around her waist. Then she pushed his hand underneath it, against the bare skin of her lower stomach.
The shock of it was electric.
Her skin was warm, surprisingly smooth over the relentless hardness beneath. He let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. His fingertips tentatively traced the vertical line that ran down the center, a deep groove between two formidable ridges of muscle.
“See?” Eva said, her voice closer to his ear. “Solid. It’s designed to take it.”
He pressed slightly. There was no give. None. It was like pressing against seasoned hardwood. He spread his fingers, mapping the territory he’d only ever seen through a screen. The distinct, blocky outlines of her external obliques framed her waist. The dense, compact slab of her rectus abdominis was a fortress wall.
A low, involuntary sound escaped him. His other hand came up, almost on its own, to touch her other side, his thumbs finding the deep indentations of her hip flexors.
“Yeah,” Eva said, a note of approval in her voice. She released his wrist, letting him explore freely. She watched his face, reading the awe there. “All those videos, Pete. This is what they feel like. This is what you’ve been thinking about.”
He was hard. A throbbing, insistent pressure against his jeans. It had happened almost the moment her skin touched his, a direct, humiliatingly visceral reaction.
She glanced down, then back up, a knowing grin spreading across her face. “And there it is. Good. That’s honest.” She didn’t shy away. She leaned into his touch slightly, making the muscles under his hands tense and harden even more. “This is just the menu, okay? Tonight, we eat.”
His mind was a static roar. Her words cut through it.
“We start easy. You get used to the feel, the weight, the balance. We see how your feet feel on me. Then we move to the hands. Kneeling. Maybe standing, if you feel steady.” She spoke calmly, laying out a plan. “We find your limit, not mine. My job is to take it. Your job is to learn how to give it.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, his hands still on her, as if glued there.
She barked a short, genuine laugh. “You won’t. Not the way you mean. The feeling I want… it’s a specific kind of hurt. It’s a deep ache, a burn, a feeling of being… compressed. Fully and completely. You’re going to help me feel that.” She placed her hands over his, pressing them harder into her flesh. “This can take it. I need it to take it. So you don’t have to be gentle. You have to be present.”
He finally looked up from his hands on her stomach and met her eyes. They were bright, focused, utterly sober. She wasn’t humoring him. She was as invested in this as he was, just from the other side.
“Okay,” he said, the word feeling more solid than anything else in the room.
“Okay,” she echoed. She finally stepped back, breaking the contact. The absence of her warmth felt abrupt. She nodded toward the cleared space of the rug. “So, we stop talking theory. You go sit on the couch. Take a few minutes. Breathe. I’m going to get ready.”
“Get ready?”
She unzipped her gym bag, pulling out a simple, folded black sheet. “Gonna lay this down. Save your rug.” Then she looked at him, that grin returning. “And I’m gonna make myself fresh after the long drive. Thought you might want a proper look before we start.”
She turned, not waiting for an answer, and began spreading the sheet on the floor with efficient motions. Peter sank onto the edge of the couch, his heart hammering against his ribs. The phantom feel of her sculpted stomach was etched into his palms. The weekend, which had been an abstract future, collapsed into the present.
It was happening now.