The sauna steam had barely cleared from Delilah Kane's skin before the guilt arrived.
It came fast—sharp and familiar—like the sting of a fresh blister after an overlong practice. She stepped out of the annex first, still naked except for the towel she wrapped loosely around her hips, breasts still glistening with sweat and the remnants of Jett's release. She didn't look back at him right away. Just walked to the bench, picked up her discarded sports bra, held it in her hands like she didn't remember what to do with it.
Jett followed a moment later—shorts pulled back on, T-shirt in his fist, chest still rising and falling a little too hard. He watched her shoulders tense.
"Don't," she said before he could speak. Voice low. Rough from moaning his name minutes earlier. "Don't say anything yet."
He stayed silent. Leaned against the wall near the door. Gave her the space.
She finally turned. Eyes bright—not with tears, but with something close. Anger at herself, mostly.
"I'm married," she said flatly. "I have a husband who pays for this court, this house, this life. And I just let the nineteen-year-old next door come in my mouth while I rode his cock like a teenager in heat."
Jett didn't flinch at the bluntness.
"You didn't let me do anything," he said quietly. "You took what you wanted. Same as I did."
She laughed—short, bitter. Dropped the bra back onto the bench.
"That's the problem. I wanted it. Badly. And now I can't un-want it."
She walked to the small fridge in the corner, pulled out two bottles of water. Tossed one to him without looking. Cracked hers open. Drank half in one long pull. Water dribbled down her chin, between her breasts. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
"The blackmail," she said suddenly. "It's not just some ex-coach with old videos. It's worse. He has proof I fucked my way onto the pro circuit when I was twenty-one. Photos. Messages. Enough to tank my reputation, my endorsements, my marriage. My husband knows about the money I send every month—he thinks it's charity for underprivileged kids. If he ever finds out the truth…"
She trailed off. Looked at Jett for the first time since they'd left the sauna.
"I'm not proud of who I was back then. But I'm even less proud of who I am right now."
Jett set the unopened water bottle on the bench. Stepped closer—slow, careful.
"You think I'm judging you?"
"I think you should."
"I don't." He stopped just short of touching her. "I see a woman who fought like hell to get where she is. Who still fights every day. Who's lonely as fuck in a marriage that died years ago. And who finally let herself feel something real tonight."
Her throat worked. She looked away.
"I can't do this again," she whispered. "Not like that. Not yet."
Jett nodded once.
"Then we don't."
She met his eyes—surprised.
"But…" She hesitated. Bit her lower lip. "I still want to see you. Just… different. Coaching sessions. Private. Here. After dark. You can watch me practice. Help with my form. Spot me on weights. Talk. Nothing more until I say otherwise."
It wasn't surrender.
It was negotiation.
Jett smiled—small, patient.
"I can do that."
She exhaled. Tension easing fractionally from her shoulders.
"Tomorrow night. Eight-thirty. Bring running shoes. I'm going to work you hard."
He raised a brow. "Promise?"
She laughed—genuine this time, soft and surprised.
"Get out before I change my mind and drag you back into the sauna."
He left.
But he felt her eyes on his back the whole way to the gate.
Across the lawns, Seraphina noticed the absences.
Jett no longer lingered on the terrace in the mornings. No more casual crossings through the main house to "help" Damien with something trivial. When he did appear—at dinner, or passing in the driveway—he was polite. Distant. Perfectly appropriate.
It infuriated her.
Because the distance hurt more than the closeness ever had.
She started finding excuses to be near the guest house—watering plants that didn't need it, checking the pool chemicals herself instead of calling maintenance. Once she caught him coming back from a late run—shirt off, sweatpants low, muscles gleaming under the security lights. Their eyes met for one heartbeat. She felt the pull low in her belly, the familiar ache between her thighs. She turned away so fast she nearly tripped.
That night she stood at her window again. Curtains open. Robe untied. Fingers between her legs while she watched the dark guest-house windows. She came quietly—biting her lip until it bled—then cried afterward. Silent tears into her pillow.
She hated him for making her feel this way.
She hated herself more for wanting him anyway.
The "coaching sessions" started the next night.
Delilah waited at the court gate—black leggings, cropped hoodie unzipped halfway, ponytail high. No bra again; the hoodie gaped when she moved.
Jett arrived in running shorts and a fitted tank. She looked him over once—appreciative, unapologetic—then jerked her head toward the court.
"Warm up. Two laps. Then we drill."
She worked him mercilessly.
Sprints. Lateral shuffles. Agility ladder drills until his calves screamed. She corrected his form with sharp commands—"Knees higher. Core tight. Eyes forward."—but her hands lingered when she adjusted his stance. Fingers on his hips. Palm flat against his lower back. Thumb brushing the exposed skin where his tank rode up.
He never complained. Never pushed. Just absorbed it all.
After ninety minutes she called it.
"Enough. You're done."
They walked to the annex gym. She didn't lock the door this time. Just dimmed the lights.
She peeled off the hoodie. Sports bra underneath—black, sweat-soaked, clinging. Breasts rising and falling with each breath.
"Stretch me out," she said. Voice husky. "Hamstrings first."
She lay on her back on the mat. One leg extended. Jett knelt between her thighs—careful, professional at first. Took her ankle. Pressed her leg toward her chest in a slow hamstring stretch.
She exhaled—long, shaky.
"Deeper."
He leaned in. Body hovering over hers. Chest brushing her bent knee. Her free leg hooked around his waist—subtle, but deliberate.
Their eyes locked.
She rocked her hips once—tiny, almost imperceptible grind against his thigh.
He felt how hot she was through the leggings.
"Delilah…"
"Don't stop stretching me," she whispered. "Just… keep going."
He did.
Pressed deeper. Held. Her breath hitched every time he rocked forward. Her nipples hardened visibly under the bra. She bit her lip—hard.
After the stretch she rolled onto her stomach.
"Glutes now. Pigeon pose. Help me open it."
He knelt behind her. One hand on her lower back. The other guiding her bent leg into position. His hips settled against her ass—accidental at first, then not.
She arched back—subtle press against his growing erection.
"Fuck," she breathed. "You feel that?"
"Yeah."
She rocked again—slow roll of her hips.
"I said nothing more until I say otherwise."
"I remember."
She looked back over her shoulder. Eyes dark.
"Then why are you so hard?"
"Because you're grinding on me like you want me inside you."
A long silence.
Then she whispered,
"Not tonight."
But she didn't move away.
They stayed like that—locked in the almost—for another minute.
Then she exhaled. Rolled out from under him.
Stood.
Fixed her leggings with shaking hands.
"Tomorrow," she said. Voice rough. "Same time. Bring water. And patience."
Jett smiled—slow, knowing.
"I've got plenty."
She watched him leave.
Then locked the door behind him.
Pressed her forehead to the wood.
And slid one hand down the front of her leggings.
Fingers finding her clit—already swollen, slick.
She came in under thirty seconds—quiet, shuddering, whispering his name into the empty gym.
Across the dark estate, Seraphina's bedroom light stayed on until dawn.
She didn't sleep.
Neither did Delilah.
The burning months were only getting hotter.