Page 33 of Spotlight Hearts

He turns and walks away.

Fast. Toward the door.

I stand there—frozen, breathing like I just ran ten miles—watching his back retreat. His shoulders are rigid. Hands clenched at his sides.

The door swings shut behind him with a soft click.

Silence crashes in. And then I’m alone in the gym. Lights buzzing. Heart slamming. Cock throbbing uselessly in my shorts.

I drag a hand through my hair. Let out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a choke.

“Fuck.”

My legs feel like rubber, and I lean back against the bike, trying to breathe through the ache—everywhere. Chest. Groin. The hollow space where he was just pressed against me.

He ran.

He kissed me like he was drowning in it—and then he ran.

And I’m standing here, hard as a rock, body screaming for more, mind spinning with the taste of him still on my tongue.

I stay frozen for another ten seconds—maybe twenty—waiting for him to come back. Waiting for the door to swing open again, for him to storm in and finish what we started. For anything.

Nothing happens.

The gym stays quiet. Lights buzz. My pulse thuds in my ears.

I push off the bike. Legs shaky. Shorts painfully tight. I grab my water bottle, towel, and head for the door without looking back. The hallway is empty. The elevator ride is torture—every floor feels like it takes a year. I keep my back to the mirrored wall so I don’t have to see my own wrecked reflection.

Room door. Key card. Inside.

Michael’s asleep—soft snores from the other bed. Thank fuck. I don’t turn on the light. Just strip in the dark—tank, shorts, briefs—leaving everything in a heap on the bathroom floor. I twist the shower knob hard. Water blasts hot, and steam fills the small space fast.

I step under the spray, head bowed, and hands braced on the tile. The water hits my shoulders, my back, runs down my spine. It doesn’t help.

I close my eyes.

And there he is.

Kai—sweat-slicked on the treadmill, chest heaving. The way his tank clung to him, transparent in places, nipples hard under the fabric. The way his lips parted when he drank, water spilling down his jaw, following the ink like it was drawn there for me to trace. The taste of him—salt and heat. The way he groaned into my mouth, low and broken, fingers fisting my tank as if he never wanted to let go.

My hand drops and wraps around my cock—still rock-hard, leaking, sensitive. I hiss at the first stroke.

I picture him pressing me against the gym wall instead of running. His hands sliding under my tank, nails digging into my back. His mouth on my neck—right over the constellation on my pec—teeth grazing the ink. His hips grinding against mine, hard length rubbing mine through our shorts until we’re both shaking.

Stroke faster. Thumb swiping over the head, spreading precum. Water pounds my shoulders. Steam clouds everything. And I don’t stop, I chase the release I plan on having with his image inside my head.

I see him on his knees—dark eyes looking up at me, lips swollen from the kiss, taking me unrushed at first, then deeper. Tongue swirling. Hollowed cheeks. The way he’d look wrecked—hair damp, cheeks flushed, his throat flexing every time he swallowed around me.

My other hand braces harder against the tile. Breath ragged. Hips jerking into my fist.

Then him on top—straddling me on the bench press, thighs bracketing mine, grinding down while I grip his hips hard enough to bruise. His head thrown back, throat exposed. Moaning my name—low, desperate—while he rides me, tight and hot and perfect.

The image tips me over.

I come hard—spilling over my fist, ropes hitting the shower wall in thick pulses. My knees nearly buckle. A choked groan rips out of me—half curse, half his name. I bite my lip to muffle it, ride the aftershocks with long, slow strokes until I’m oversensitive and shaking.

Water washes it all away—cum, sweat, tension. I stay under the spray, moving it to cold, attempting to get myself under control. Forehead pressed to the tile. Breathing hard.