The annex gym smelled different the next night—sharper, more intimate. Rubber mats still carried the faint echo of yesterday's sweat, but now there was cedar from the sauna door left cracked open, a trace of citrus body wash, and underneath it all, the unmistakable musk of anticipation that neither of them could pretend away.
Delilah was already there when Jett arrived at eight-thirty sharp. No floodlights on the court tonight. No racket. She waited inside the gym annex, door unlocked, lights dimmed to a single overhead bulb and the red glow leaking from the sauna.
She wore black high-waisted leggings again—thinner material tonight, almost sheer where sweat would soon darken them—and a cropped compression tank in charcoal gray. No bra. The fabric molded to her breasts like a second skin; her nipples were already visible, tight from the cool air or from whatever thoughts had been running through her head since yesterday.
She didn't greet him with words.
Just closed the door behind him the second he stepped inside.
Locked it.
Turned.
And walked straight into his space.
"Warm-up's over," she said, voice low and rough. "We're skipping straight to conditioning."
Jett didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just held her gaze and waited.
She grabbed the front of his tank top—fingers curling into the fabric—and backed him up until his shoulders hit the far wall. Concrete block, cool against his skin through the thin material. She pressed herself flush against him—breasts flattening against his chest, hips slotting perfectly against his, one thigh sliding between his legs.
"You feel that?" she whispered, rocking forward once—slow, deliberate—grinding her heat against the growing ridge in his shorts. "How wet I got just thinking about this all day?"
Jett exhaled through his nose. Hands hovering at her waist—close but not touching yet.
"I feel it."
She tilted her head. Lips brushing his jaw.
"Good. Because I'm done pretending I don't want you to fuck me senseless."
"But?"
"But I'm still married. Still being blackmailed. Still terrified that if I let this go any further I'll lose control completely." She rocked again—harder this time. A soft whimper escaped her. "So tonight… we keep it like this. No penetration. No mouths on each other. Just… this."
She rolled her hips in a slow circle. The friction dragged a groan out of him.
"Grind on me until we both come," she finished. "And then we stop. Deal?"
Jett finally touched her—hands landing firm on her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her leggings waistband.
"Deal."
She surged up and kissed him—fierce, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against his like she was trying to devour him. He kissed back just as hard. One hand sliding up her back under the cropped tank, palm flat against sweat-damp skin. The other dropping to cup her ass—squeezing, lifting her slightly so she could grind higher, harder against the thick length trapped in his shorts.
She moaned into his mouth. Broke the kiss long enough to gasp,
"Fuck—take the tank off. I want to feel you."
He yanked it over his head in one motion. Dropped it. Bare chest now, muscles flexing under her roaming hands.
She shoved his shorts down just enough—cock springing free, thick and flushed, pre-cum already beading at the tip. She didn't touch it directly. Instead she pressed her clothed pussy against the bare shaft—rocking forward so the seam of her leggings dragged along his length.
"God," she breathed. "You're so fucking hard."
He gripped her ass tighter. Guided her movements—slow rolls at first, then faster. The friction was maddening—her heat seeping through the thin fabric, his cock sliding against her swollen clit with every grind.
She braced one hand on the wall beside his head. The other fisted in his hair. Pulled his mouth back to hers.
They kissed like they were drowning—messy, desperate, teeth clacking, tongues tangling. Her hips never stopped moving. Faster now. Harder. The wet spot on her leggings growing, darkening, slicking his shaft until every slide felt obscene.
"Jett—" Her voice cracked. "I'm close already. Fuck—don't stop—"
He slid both hands under her ass—lifted her completely off the floor. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. Now she was pinned between him and the wall—weight supported by his strength, hips free to grind exactly how she needed.
He thrust up—matching her rhythm without entering her. Cock sliding along her slit through the fabric, bumping her clit on every upstroke.
She cried out—muffled against his shoulder. Nails raking down his back.
"Harder—please—fuck—"
He gave it to her. Pounded up against her in short, brutal grinds. The wall rattled faintly with each impact. Her breasts bounced inside the cropped tank; he shoved the fabric up with one hand, palmed a bare breast, thumbed her nipple roughly.
She shattered.
Back arching off the wall. Thighs clamping around him like a vice. Pussy pulsing against his cock through the soaked leggings—wetness flooding the fabric, coating him. She sobbed his name—once, twice—then bit down on his shoulder to muffle the rest.
The sight, the sound, the feel of her coming undone pushed him over.
He thrust up one last time—hard—groaned low and wrecked as he came. Hot spurts painting her leggings, her inner thighs, dripping down to the mat below. Pulse after pulse until he was shaking, hips jerking in shallow aftershocks.
They stayed pinned like that—sweaty, trembling, breathing in harsh pants.
Slowly he lowered her until her feet touched the mat again. Legs unsteady. She leaned against the wall for support.
Looked down at the mess between them—his cum streaking her black leggings, her own wetness darkening the crotch.
She laughed—breathless, disbelieving.
"We're a fucking disaster."
Jett cupped her face. Kissed her slow this time. Tender.
"The best kind."
She rested her forehead against his for a long moment.
Then pulled back.
"Tomorrow," she said quietly. "Same time. But… bring a towel. And maybe a change of clothes."
He smiled against her lips.
"Already planning on it."
She watched him leave—shorts readjusted, tank back on, back glistening with sweat and faint red lines from her nails.
After the door clicked shut she slid down the wall to sit on the mat.
Legs spread.
Fingers tracing the wet streaks on her leggings.
She pressed against her still-sensitive clit through the fabric—once, twice.
Came again—quiet this time, eyes closed, whispering his name like a secret.
Across the dark lawns, Seraphina Voss stood at her bedroom window.
Curtains open.
Robe loose.
She'd seen Jett walk from the Kane property—hair damp, posture loose and satisfied in a way that made her stomach twist.
Jealousy burned low and hot.
She didn't cry tonight.
Instead she marched downstairs—barefoot, robe barely tied—and slipped out the side door.
Crossed the lawn in the shadows.
Stopped at the guest-house door.
Raised her fist to knock.
Froze.
Hand trembling.
Then she turned away.
Went back inside.
Locked her own bedroom door.
And cried into her pillow until sleep finally took her.
The gym wall had cracked another piece of the world open.
And no one was escaping unscathed.