Chapter 4: After Hours Training
The following week passed in a blur of unfinished readings and charged glances across crowded lecture halls. Philosophy had become impossible. Every time she tried to focus on moral imperatives, her mind rewound to the feel of his thumb on her lip, the taste of his skin, the damp shame of her leggings. Chloe called it “post-Jerome brain fog,” and recommended hydration and retail therapy. Neither helped.
Her phone buzzed on Thursday night, a single letter lighting up the screen: J.
Meet me behind the athletic complex. 10 PM. East equipment shed.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. No question, no preamble. Just a time, a place. A command.
She told Chloe she was going for a walk to clear her head.
“In the dark? Behind the athletic complex?” Chloe had narrowed her eyes, then shrugged. “Text me when you’re on your way back. Or if you need an alibi.”
Now, standing in the deep shadow of the sprawling brick complex, Alyssa wondered if she should have asked for details. The east equipment shed was a low, corrugated metal building tucked behind a chain-link fence. It looked abandoned. A single, flyspecked bulb glowed above the rusted door, attracting a halo of moths.
The door was unlocked. She pushed it open, its hinges groaning in protest.
The air inside was heavy, stale. It smelled of ingrained sweat, mildew, and old leather. A dim, flickering bulb hung from a wire in the center, casting long, wavering shadows. The walls were lined with metal shelving crammed with cracked helmets, deflated footballs, and piles of sweat-stained jerseys. In the middle of the concrete floor, neatly stacked, were thick blue gym mats.
Jerome stood by a workbench cluttered with weight plates and torn tape. He was shirtless, wearing only low-slung grey sweatpants. The flickering light carved the definition of his torso into sharp relief—the slope of his shoulders, the hard plane of his stomach. He was rotating a massive weight plate in his hands, his fingers splayed across its edge. He didn’t look up as she entered.
“You came.” His voice was flat, absorbed by the damp air.
“You texted.” She shut the door behind her. The click of the latch was final.
He set the plate down with a heavy clank that echoed in the small space. Finally, he turned. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools in the poor light. “Curious?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“About what happens next.” She took a step forward, her sneakers scuffing on the gritty concrete. The smell of turf and old sweat was overpowering. “The library… that was an interrogation. What’s this?”
“A different kind of evidence collection.” He moved toward her, his gait slow and deliberate. The space felt smaller with every step he took. “You said you were an open book. I want to read more than the preface.”
He stopped inches from her. His body heat radiated against her. He smelled of clean sweat and something sharper, more animal.
“What do you want to read?” Her voice was steadier than she felt.
In answer, his hands came to her hips. They were warm and heavy through her thin shorts. He turned her, gently but firmly, until she was facing the stack of gym mats. The blue vinyl was cool under her palms.
“Stay,” he said, his voice a low vibration against her back.
She heard him step away, the sound of his movement behind her. Her breath quickened. The vinyl squeaked under her shifting hands.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts and her panties beneath. In one swift, decisive motion, he yanked them down to her knees. The cool, damp air of the shed hit her bare skin, raising goosebumps. She gasped, her fingers curling against the mat.
His hand came down on her ass.
The sound was a sharp, shocking crack in the quiet shed. The pain was bright, immediate, followed by a bloom of heat. She cried out, more from surprise than hurt.
“Quiet,” he murmured, his hand resting on the now-stinging flesh. He rubbed it slowly, almost apologetically. Then he spanked her again, on the other side. This time she was ready, biting her lip to stifle the sound. The impact jolted through her, a mix of sting and a deeper, thrilling ache.
He did it again. And again. A rhythmic, measured cadence. Each strike lit a new fire, each pause filled with the sound of their breathing and the distant buzz of the bulb. Her skin grew hot, sensitive. She could feel herself throbbing, wetness gathering between her legs. She was exposed, bent over, completely at his mercy. A shudder ran through her—part fear, part overwhelming want.
His hands left her. She heard the rustle of fabric, the soft slide of his sweatpants. Then the blunt, heavy pressure of him against her entrance. He was huge, larger than she’d imagined, slick with her own arousal.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t tease. He pushed in.
The stretch was intense, breathtaking. She choked back a sob, her knuckles turning white against the mat. He didn’t stop, didn’t give her time to adjust. He filled her completely, a deep, claiming invasion that stole the air from her lungs. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with restraint.
“God,” he breathed into her ear, his voice ragged. “You’re so fucking tight.”
Then he moved.
His thrusts were slow at first, deep and purposeful, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. The friction was unreal, a rough, perfect drag that made her see stars behind her clenched eyelids. The vinyl squeaked in rhythm with their bodies. The scent of her arousal mixed with the smell of old leather and his sweat.
He picked up the pace, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. The slaps of their bodies meeting filled the shed, a raw, wet sound. Each thrust pushed a choked gasp from her throat. She was unmoored, lost in a storm of sensation—the bite of pain from her ass, the overwhelming fullness, the coarse vinyl under her palms, the dizzying smell of it all.
“Tell me,” he grunted, his rhythm faltering for a second. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want it,” she panted, the words ripped from her. “I want you.”
It was like a switch flipped. His control snapped. His thrusts became frantic, brutal, driving her forward against the mats. One of his hands tangled in her short curls, pulling her head back. The sharp pain in her scalp fused with the pleasure coiling in her core, twisting it tighter, hotter.
She was hurtling toward the edge, her body clenching around him. The world narrowed to this: the slap of skin, his ragged breaths in her ear, the blinding heat building low in her belly.
He came with a rough, guttural groan, his body shuddering against hers, pouring into her. The feeling of him pulsing deep inside triggered her own release. It crashed over her in silent, violent waves, her cry trapped in her throat, her body convulsing around his.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths and the buzz of the failing light.
He softened inside her, then slipped out. The sudden emptiness felt profound. Cool air touched skin that had been full of him.
He pulled her shorts and panties back up over her tender skin, his movements now slow, almost clumsy. He turned her around to face him. His expression was different—the quiet intensity was gone, replaced by a raw, stripped-bare look she couldn’t name.
He cupped her face, his thumb wiping away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen.
She reached for him, but he stepped back, creating a space she couldn’t bridge. He turned away, pulling his sweatpants up, his back a wall of tense muscle.
“You should go,” he said, his voice rough, devoid of its earlier command.
“Jerome—”
“Now, Alyssa.”
The use of her name, cold and final, was worse than any dismissal. She straightened her clothes, her legs feeling weak and foreign. She walked to the shed door on unsteady feet, the concrete gritty under her soles.
She looked back once. He was standing with his back to her, head bowed, fists clenched at his sides, a silhouette of turmoil in the flickering dark.
She stepped out into the cool night. The door groaned shut behind her, sealing him inside with the ghosts of helmets and the smell of what they’d just done. She walked toward the distant lights of the dorm, the ache between her legs a constant, guilty reminder. The chapter had been read, but the ending felt all wrong.