Chapter 6: Wrestling with Temptation
The gym had become a cage.
Melissa felt it the moment she stepped through the door—that familiar charge in the air, thick as humidity, pressing against her skin. The mirrors reflected everything back at her: the tight black leggings, the cropped tank top, the flush already creeping up her neck. She'd told herself this was just a workout. Just another session. Just two people who happened to share a house and a schedule and a gravitational pull neither of them acknowledged.
Victor was already there, of course. He was always there first.
He stood by the cable machine, rolling his shoulders, his back muscles shifting under the thin cotton of his tank. He heard her come in and turned, and his face split into that grin—the one that said he knew something she didn't. Or maybe he knew exactly what she did.
"Took you long enough," he said. "I was starting to think you'd bailed."
"Traffic."
"You live here."
"Shut up."
She dropped her water bottle on the bench and walked past him to the dumbbell rack. His eyes followed her. She felt them on her back, on her ass, on the curve of her waist where her shirt rode up. She didn't turn around. She just reached for a pair of twenties and started her warm-up.
For the first twenty minutes, they worked in parallel—legs and core, lunges and planks, the kind of workout that left them both sweating and breathless. Victor kept up his usual commentary, cracking jokes, teasing her about her form, challenging her to add more weight. Melissa fired back, calling him a show-off, telling him his squat depth was pathetic without the weight of his ego.
It was easy. Familiar. Safe.
Except it wasn't.
Not anymore.
Not after the videos. Not after the wrestling match last week, when she'd pinned him three times and felt every inch of his body under hers. Not after she'd walked away laughing while his cock strained against his shorts, hard and obvious and completely undeniable.
She thought about that moment constantly. In the shower. In bed, next to David's sleeping form. At the grocery store, standing in line with a cart full of organic vegetables, her mind suddenly flooded with the image of Victor's face when she'd told him to go take care of it.
She'd been teasing him. Testing him. Pushing the boundaries of whatever this was between them.
And he'd let her.
That was the part that kept her up at night. He'd let her pin him. He'd let her hands roam over his chest, his arms, his thighs. He'd let her press her body against his and pretend it was all part of the game.
He knew.
He had to know.
And he was still here.
"Hey." Victor's voice cut through her thoughts. He was standing by the mats now, tossing a towel over his shoulder. "You want to go again?"
"Go again?"
"The wrestling thing." He shrugged, but his eyes were sharp. "You beat me three times last week. I'm feeling a little... motivated."
Melissa's heart kicked against her ribs.
"Scared you'll lose again?"
"Nah." He stepped onto the mat, bare feet silent on the foam. "I'm just saying. If you want to go another round, I'm game."
She should say no. She knew she should say no. This was a mistake—a slow, deliberate walk toward the edge of a cliff she'd been pretending not to see.
But her feet were already moving.
"Fine," she said. "But don't cry when I put you on your back again."
Victor laughed. "Big words."
They circled each other on the mat. The overhead lights buzzed. The mirrors reflected them from every angle—a dozen versions of the same scene, repeating into infinity. Melissa kept her eyes on Victor's, watching for the tell. The shift of weight. The flash of intention.
He lunged.
She sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and used his momentum to twist him toward the ground. But he was ready this time. He spun with her, caught her waist, and pulled her down with him.
They hit the mat together, a tangle of limbs and breath. Melissa landed on top, her hands pressed against his chest. Victor looked up at her, his grin wider now.
"That all you got?"
She didn't answer. She just shifted her weight, pinning his shoulders to the mat, her hips settling against his. His body went still beneath her. His breath caught.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Melissa slid her hands down his arms—slowly, deliberately—feeling the muscle, the heat, the slight tremor that ran through him as her fingers traced his biceps.
"Nice," she murmured. "You've been working out."
Victor's jaw tightened. "You too."
She shifted again, pressing her hips harder against his. His hands came up to her waist—not to push her away, but to hold her there. His fingers dug into her sides.
"You're cheating," he said.
"I'm winning."
They rolled. Victor gained the upper hand, flipping her onto her back, his body covering hers. His chest pressed against her breasts. His knees bracketed her hips. She could feel him—all of him—through the thin fabric of their clothes.
"You were saying?"
Melissa grinned. She hooked her leg around his, twisted her hips, and reversed their positions again. Victor landed on his back with a grunt, and she was on top of him, her hair falling around her face, her breath coming fast.
"Winning," she repeated. "I was saying I'm winning."
She let her hands wander. Down his chest. Over his abs. Along the waistband of his shorts. Each touch was casual—or seemed casual—but her fingers lingered. They traced the lines of his body like she was memorizing them.
Victor's breath hitched.
"You're doing that on purpose," he said.
"Doing what?"
"Touching me."
"I'm wrestling you."
"There's a difference."
She leaned down, her lips close to his ear. "Is there?"
His hands found her hips again. This time, he didn't try to move her. He just held on.
"I think you know there is," he said.
Melissa pulled back. Looked at him. His face was flushed, his pupils blown wide. His cock was hard against her thigh—she could feel it, thick and insistent, pressing through his shorts.
She should stop. She should get up, laugh it off, pretend this was all part of the game.
Instead, she pressed down.
Victor groaned. It was a low, rough sound that vibrated through his chest and into hers. His hips bucked up, an involuntary thrust, and Melissa felt the full length of him grind against her pussy.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Something wrong?"
"You know what's wrong."
She did. She knew exactly what was wrong. She was playing with fire, and she didn't care. She wanted to burn.
But not yet.
She rolled off him, stood up, and offered him her hand. He took it, his grip tighter than necessary, and let her pull him to his feet.
"Good match," she said.
Victor stared at her. His shorts were tented, the outline of his cock unmistakable. He didn't try to hide it.
"That's it?"
"What else did you want?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head.
"Nothing," he said. "Whatever."
She grabbed her water bottle and walked toward the door. At the threshold, she paused.
"You should probably go take care of that," she said, nodding at his crotch.
Then she was gone.
She didn't see his face. She didn't need to.
She already knew.
---
Later that night, she couldn't sleep.
David was in New York. A business trip. He'd called at nine, talked for five minutes about a meeting that had gone well, then hung up with a distracted "love you" that felt more like a reflex than a sentiment.
Melissa lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was too quiet. The sheets were too cold. Her mind was too loud.
She reached for her phone.
It was a bad idea. She knew it was a bad idea. But the site was already bookmarked, and her fingers were already moving, and the familiar blue background of the amateur porn site loaded before she could talk herself out of it.
Victor had posted something new.
The title made her stomach tighten: Smashing and Breeding My Buddy's Girl Again, This Time While She's On The Phone...Sorry Not Sorry.
She clicked it.
The video opened on a bedroom. A different one this time—less hotel, more apartment. There was a window with cheap blinds, a laundry basket in the corner, a poster on the wall that said "LIVE LAUGH LOVE" in cursive font.
Victor was already on the bed with the blonde. The same blonde from the first video. The one with the butterfly tattoo.
She was on her stomach, her face pressed into a pillow. Victor was behind her, his body draped over hers, his cock buried deep inside her.
But he wasn't moving.
Not yet.
"You ready?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Say it."
"I'm ready."
"That's my girl."
He reached for something on the nightstand—her phone. He held it up to her ear.
"It's ringing," he said.
The blonde's eyes went wide. "Victor, no—"
"Shh. You're going to answer it."
"What? No, I can't—"
"You can. And you will." He pressed the phone harder against her ear as it rang. "Unless you want me to stop."
The blonde's face twisted. Fear and desire warring on her features.
The phone connected.
"Hey, babe!" Her voice was too bright, too forced. "I was just thinking about you."
Victor started to move.
Slowly. Deliberately. Each thrust was long and deep, pulling almost all the way out before burying himself to the hilt. The blonde's breath hitched.
"You okay?" The voice on the other end of the line was tinny, distant. Male. Concerned.
"Yeah, I'm—fine. Just—" Victor thrust again, harder this time. "—tired."
"Are you sure? You sound weird."
Victor leaned down, his lips brushing the blonde's ear. "Tell him you're fine," he whispered. "Or I'll stop."
She gulped. "I'm fine. Really. Just—miss you."
"Miss you too. Hey, did you watch that show I told you about?"
Victor picked up the pace. His hips slapped against her ass, muffled by the comforter. The blonde bit down on her lip hard enough to leave marks. Her eyes were wet.
"Yeah—I—watched—the first—episode."
"How was it?"
"Good. Really—" A particularly deep thrust made her gasp. "—good."
"You okay?"
"Fine! I just—stubbed my toe."
Victor's hand slid around her body, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed slow, tight circles while he fucked her. The blonde's moans were barely contained.
"You sure? You sound really off."
"I said I'm fine!"
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
"Okay," her boyfriend said. "Well, I'll let you go. Love you."
"Love you too."
She hung up.
Victor immediately withdrew.
"No," he said.
"What?" The blonde turned her head, her face full of confusion.
"You hung up without asking me."
"Victor, please—"
"You were supposed to wait until I said you could."
Her eyes widened. "You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious." He got off the bed and walked around to face her. His cock was still hard, glistening with her juices. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up to her knees.
"You're going to apologize," he said.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For hanging up."
"That's not good enough." He pushed her back onto the bed, onto her stomach. Then he climbed behind her, spread her legs, and slid his cock back inside her.
She gasped. Her fingers twisted in the sheets.
"I'm going to edge you," Victor said. "Until you understand."
He started to move.
This time, he fucked her hard. Fast. The kind of rhythm that brought her to the edge in seconds. Her moans filled the room, high and desperate.
Then he stopped.
"No," she whimpered. "Please, don't—"
"Not yet."
He waited. Counted. Then started again. Hard. Fast. Her body convulsed. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
He stopped again.
"Victor, please!"
"Say it."
"I'm sorry!"
"Sorry for what?"
"For hanging up! I'm sorry I didn't ask permission. I'm sorry I disobeyed. Please—please let me come."
He didn't answer. He just fucked her. Slower this time. Grinding his hips against her ass, his cock buried so deep she could probably feel it in her throat. She was crying now—actual tears sliding down her cheeks—but she was also pushing back against him, her body betraying her shame.
"You love this," Victor said. "Don't you?"
"Yes," she sobbed. "I love it."
"Who's pussy is this?"
"Yours."
"Say it louder."
"YOURS."
He picked up the pace. Faster and faster. The bed creaked and slammed against the wall. The blonde's moans turned into screams.
"Come with me," Victor said. "Now."
Her body convulsed. She shattered beneath him, her walls clenching tight around his cock. Victor followed, burying himself to the hilt and filling her with his seed. He didn't pull out. He just stayed there, his chest heaving, his hands still gripping her hips.
"Good girl," he said.
The blonde didn't answer. She just lay there, trembling.
The video ended.
Melissa set her phone down. Her hand was shaking. Her pussy was wet.
She rolled over, staring at the ceiling.
She thought about calling out—calling Karen, calling David, calling anyone who might help her make sense of what she was feeling. But there was no one who would understand. No one she could talk to about this.
So she did the only thing she could do.
She reached for her phone again.
She opened a text to Victor.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
She typed: Your new video is up.
She deleted it.
She typed: I saw it.
She deleted it.
She typed: I know what you did with Elizabeth Harper.
She stared at the words. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
She didn't delete it this time.
She hit send.
Then she dropped the phone on the nightstand, closed her eyes, and waited.
The door to her bedroom was closed. The house was silent.
But somewhere on the other side of the wall—just a few feet away, just a few steps down the hall—Victor was in his room.
And her phone was buzzing.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.