The pool shimmered under the harsh glow of the overhead lights, the smell of chlorine clinging thick in the air. It was well past practice hours, the water eerily still, and the only sound was the faint hum of the filtration system. Emma's bare feet echoed softly against the tiled floor as she walked in, a duffel slung over her shoulder.
She wasn't supposed to be here this late but Coach Miller had told her, "If you want to swim in the next meet, you'll need extra sessions. One-on-one. My rules."
She hadn't missed the way his eyes had lingered not just on her form in the water, but on the curve of her hip when she walked away from him after practice. It was dangerous, intoxicating, and exactly the sort of thing Emma had been craving without even knowing it.
When she pushed open the poolside door, she saw him. Coach Miller stood at the far end, arms crossed, black athletic shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. His wet hair was slicked back, droplets still sliding down his neck from his own swim. He looked both intimidating and devastatingly inviting.
"You're late," he said, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the quiet.
Emma dropped her bag, her throat suddenly dry. "It's only five minutes."
"That five minutes you could've been in the water. You know my rule."
His gaze dragged over her body, deliberate and slow. "If you break one, you make up for it."
She swallowed, aware of how close he was to her. "And what's my penalty?"
A smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "You'll see. Get changed."
Her heart pounded as she slipped into the locker room, pulling on her sleek black one-piece. When she came back out, Coach Miller was standing at the pool's edge, holding a stopwatch.
"In. Now."
The cold water bit at her skin, but the way his eyes tracked her made heat bloom low in her belly. She pushed off, slicing through the water in powerful strokes, feeling the burn in her muscles. Each time she came up for air, he was there watching, assessing, and owning the moment.
After several relentless laps, she surfaced, panting. "Done," she said, pulling herself up onto the tiles, water streaming from her body.
"Not done," he corrected, crouching down to meet her at eye level. "Penalty first."
She arched an eyebrow. "And what is it?"
He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "You stay after and follow every instruction without question."
Her skin prickled. She didn't need to ask what kind of instructions. She could read it in the heat of his stare, in the way his hand brushed hers as he helped her stand.
The rest of the training blurred into something between control and surrender. He walked her through stretches, his hands lingering far longer than necessary, adjusting her stance until she felt the solid press of his chest at her back. His voice was low, instructive, yet every word carried an undercurrent that made her knees weak.
When his hand slid over her hip, guiding her deeper into the pose, she felt her pulse roar in her ears. "You tense up too much," he murmured. "Relax and trust me."
She exhaled shakily, but when his fingers traced the edge of her thigh, there was nothing relaxed about her anymore. Her mind screamed to pull back, but her body leaned in.
He moved in front of her, the heat of his presence radiating between them. "You want to win, Emma? You want to make the cut?" His thumb brushed her lower lip. "Then you follow my rule every time."
She didn't answer, but the way her gaze dipped to his mouth gave him all the confirmation he needed.
The kiss was sudden, hard, stealing her breath. Chlorine and heat mixed in the air as she melted into it, the wet fabric of her suit clinging to her skin. His hands framed her face, then slid down her neck, over her shoulders, and lower still, each movement deliberate, claiming.
He didn't rush. That was the worst or best part. Every touch was calculated, like he was savoring the control, letting her know she was exactly where he wanted her. The quiet pool around them seemed to fade, leaving only the slap of water against the tiles and the ragged sound of their breathing.
"You're not supposed to…" she whispered when he pulled back.
"That's another rule," he said, brushing a lock of wet hair from her cheek. "Don't tell me what I'm supposed to do."
Her laugh was breathless, her protest already dissolving as his hands roamed again. It was wrong, it was reckless, and it felt incredible.
By the time they finally stopped, she was leaning against the wall, lips swollen, the scent of chlorine clinging to their skin like a reminder of the night. He didn't say "good job" or "see you tomorrow." He just looked at her, a slow smirk curling his lips.
And Emma knew this was only the first of many nights she'd be breaking all of Coach Miller's rules just to feel like this again.