The air in the gym felt thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. I watched him, Weston, across the mat, and a familiar ache bloomed in my chest. It wasn’t the ache of wanting to win, not exactly. It was…something else. Something I’d spent the last year trying to ignore.
He moved like liquid shadow, all controlled power and effortless grace. His eyes—those infuriatingly blue eyes—were locked on mine. He didn’t need to flex, didn’t need to try. Everything about him screamed dominance, and it was enough to make my hands tremble.
God, I hated him. I hated the way he made me feel—this simmering, addictive need. I’d been training with him since high school, and the last few months, the tension had been building, stretching thinner and tighter.
“You look…distracted,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the gym.
I scoffed, twisting my lips. “Just admiring the scenery.” It was a lie, but the sarcasm felt good. It masked the way my pulse was thrumming in my ears.
He smirked, a slow, devastating curve of his lips. “Admiring my six-pack?”
I clenched my jaw. “I’m admiring how you’re about to get pinned.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.” His eyes flashed with something dark and predatory. “But you know what else I’m counting on?”
My breath hitched. He was getting too close. “What?”
“That you’ll break first.”
The challenge sent a jolt through me. It wasn’t the physical threat that bothered me—I was a top-ranked wrestler. It was the implication. The way he knew exactly how to push my buttons.
“Don’t think I won’t.”
“You’ll think about it.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ll think about it a lot.”
I wanted to shove him, to knock him off balance. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was frozen, caught in the gravity of his gaze. The gym seemed to shrink around us, the sounds of other wrestlers fading into a muffled hum.
“Just try not to enjoy it too much,” he said, his lips brushing against my ear.
A shiver ran down my spine. I pushed back, hard. This wasn't about wrestling. This was about the edge, the sweet torture of wanting something I couldn’t have. Or maybe it was about wanting him to want me.
I lunged, trying to catch him off guard. He anticipated it, of course. He always did. He twisted, hooking his arm around my neck and pulling me into a suffocating embrace.
“You’re predictable, Lana,” he murmured, his breath warm against my skin.
“I’m trying to win.”
“You’re trying to feel something.”
He was right. And that was the problem. I was addicted to the way he made me feel—this volatile mix of anger and longing. It was a perfect addiction, a beautiful, destructive mess.
“Let me go, Weston.”
“Not yet.” He tightened his grip, his muscles flexing against mine. “Not until I see you crack.”
I knew I should break away, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel this tension, this electricity, stretch until it snapped. I wanted him to push me until I lost control. Because if I lost control, maybe I wouldn’t have to feel anything at all.