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Since he first fucked you in the middle of his boxing ring, Din had developed a bit of a bad habit. A habit that involved finding some way to bury his cock inside you ever time he saw you; an inconvenience since you mostly came across each other in less than private settings. His gym, the sports clinic, or the massage studio you worked at.
It was sweltering, the city falling under the hold of a heatwave that no number of cold showers would help cool. Din ran hot by nature, and the heat only served to make him two things: irritable and horny.
That might explain the near instant reaction he had to the tempting little sundress you wore to combat the suffocating heat when you popped your head around the main doors of the gym. Your day off if the lack of uniform was anything to go by. A vision in coral pink and flushed skin, you beamed against the metal and muted, dark tones of the boxing area.
Sweat dropped down his temple from where he lay on the bench press, bare chest glistening and muscles taut as he lowered the barbell down slowly to his chest. Trained, expert eyes – honed instinct to notice every miniscule move of an opponent – picked up the flash of color and immediately flickered over to where you were approaching him.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
His jaw clenched as he turned his attention resolutely back up to stare at the ceiling, focus Djarin. With a measured exhale, his muscles bunched to press the heavy weight back up away from his body, held it for a beat, and let it lower once more on a slow inhale.
Three more.
His head turned towards you to admire your form as you traced your hand over the dumbbell stand, skilled fingers walking along the progressively heavier weights while your eyes met his in the wall of mirrors behind the stand. You smiled. And it lit your face up.
Jesus fucking Christ.
His eyes dropped from yours down your body indulgently, content to hold the weight of the barbell a beat longer. The way that dress clung to every damned curved he wanted to sink his fingers and teeth into, the swish of the skirt barely reaching the middle of supple thighs that looked better thrown over his shoulders. The fucking nerve you had to not bother concealing the faded mark on the top of your breast where it peeked out from over your neckline where he left it several days ago.
His mouth twisted into a snarl, his mark. Damn fucking right.
You were teasing him, crossing one ankle over the other to turn towards him with a dainty twirl of your skirt. Don’t get distracted on the bench, he growled to himself internally, and with a grunt, he pushed the barbell back up, the lines of muscles that cut across his triceps flexing taut and his pectorals pulsed from the strain of exercising them.
The pulse of his cock in his gym shorts on the other hand, that wasn’t a muscle that was supposed to be engaged for this particular exercise.
Two more.
“Miss me already, sweetheart?”
He ground out, voice rough and strained—keenly aware of the sway of your hips as you walked back towards the bench, his eyes at perfect eye level to thighs he wanted to wrap around his waist. You passed his head – fuck, he could smell you from here – to stand by his hips. He brought the barbell back down slowly towards his chest, breathing more labored than it should be and his jaw clenched in frustration. You were getting to him.
His grip on the metal bar almost slipped entirely when you hiked up the skirt of your dress to kick one leg over the bench and straddle his hips, the sudden weight and heat making him grunt in surprise.
You were soaked—he realized at the same time it dawned on him that you weren’t wearing any underwear.
“Does this answer your question?”
Voice as light and airy as the lavender scent that suffused the room you gave massages in—making his teeth grind and his hips struggle to remain still when memories of that same voice breathless and gasping with moans he elicited rose in his memory.
You rubbed yourself over the thick outline of him through his gym shorts – you little fucking tease – and sweat wasn’t the only thing dampening them anymore.
“Finish your workout, Din,” you sighed breathily, hooded eyes scanning the empty gym floor appreciatively—basking in the ability to rock so openly and languidly over his throbbing cock. It was a sunny day. It was the end of the week. No one was in the gym—and that was precisely why Din chose to work out now.
His eyes never left yours, molten pools filling with dark promise clashed with yours as your small hands found the planes of his tight abdomen, the muscles clenching sensitively under your touch,
“Keep your back straight… don’t want to injure yourself again—” you purred and received a warning growl in response when he pushed the weight back up, a ripple of heated arousal gathering low at his spine and tightening to a coil beneath your hands that indulgently ran over toned muscles and tawny, inked skin.
One more.
Fuck… but you felt so good. Grinding on him like that.
Din’s hips rocked up against you despite himself, his heels pressing into the grate metal flooring to push his clothed cock against your dripping cunt, your soft gasp when he caught your clit music to his ears and the last bit of motivation he needed to drop the barbell back to his chest. You focused your ruts on the tip of his bulge, the fucking audacity you had to use him to get yourself off—grinding your clit over his soaked shorts and digging short nails into his stomach while soft, gentle eyes darkened with lust bore into his.
He lowered his hips again, smirking at the soft whine of annoyance you couldn’t mask in order to adjust his posture correctly. With one last exhale, a panted curse as corded muscles tensed and released with a final burst of energy, his arms straightened once more above him.
Finally.
He had a hand tangled in the length of your hair before the clatter of the metal barbell hitting the hooks of the stand above him died out, yanking you down until your breasts were flush with his heaving chest. His other hand – calloused and rough – grabbed a fistful of your ass, the soft material of your dress bunching effortlessly in his hand,
“Didn’t get enough last week, baby?” he growled against your mouth, guiding your hips over his cock harder now that he could thrust shallowly against you, grinning darkly at your keen of frustration when his mouth glanced yours, avoiding kissing you, “fuck, you’re soaked for me already—”
Teeth grazing your jaw, you arched your neck back in blind submission, the hand caught against his stomach shifting down to tug at his shorts, succeeding in getting them only halfway down. You both groaned at the contact when wet, slick heat burned around the leaking head of his cock, making the heatwave outside feel like nothing more than a warm breeze.
“Din…” you moaned when a perfectly timed grind of his hips knocked the blunt tip against your hooded bundle of nerves, “a week is too long…” you admitted to the boxer’s delight. Finally. He wasn’t the only one going stir crazy only seeing you sporadically.
“Yeah?” he rasped, tightening his hold in your hair so he could keep your head pulled back while he licked a small trickle of sweat that was slowly making its way down to the hollow of your throat, “thinking about my cock all this time?”
Feral pride filled him at your immediate nod, his chest swelling with a primal snarl – why the fuck did you have to agree so easily, he’d never stop thinking about it now – and captured your lips heatedly with his own. Growling your name, he plundered your mouth—lapping along your tongue and groaning at your taste, swallowing your soft sighs and mewls of satisfaction at finally having his lips on yours again.
His hand dropped from your hair to drag down your spine, down the thin fabric that clung to your heated skin until he was dipping two thick digits between exposed cheeks to swipe through your drenched folds. Circling, spreading, coaxing whines and groans of his name with every press of his fingers. Music more beautiful than even the most skilled pianist could create, and all from the fingers of a fighter.
Conversation from elsewhere in the vicinity carried through empty corridors and with a dip of his fingers into your quivering entrance – chestnut eyes sharpened to dark amber watching doe eyes flutter shut in pleasure – his words breathed into your mouth when your lips parted against his,
“Locker room. Now.”
What followed was a heated scramble, a need to be close—to remain in this transcendent bubble of scorching touches and burning attraction. He practically dragged you with him across the gym floor, weaving between machines with his hand wrapped firmly around your wrist. You already looked wrecked, thoroughly corrupted with mused hair, and crooked clothing. Your legs wobbled as you followed his menacing frame, eyes glued to the shifting muscles in his back, an apex predator dragging his prey back to devour in rapture. You went willingly.
The tiles of the shower cubicle were cold when he shoved you against them – the only place remotely private in the locker room when he tugged the thin curtain closed behind you – his hands flexing around your jaw when he turned your face up for him to kiss. Free hand pressing into the small of your back, he made you arch against him, and you mewled at the solid length of him throbbing against your stomach.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he rumbled, hand snaking around to disappear beneath the skirt of your dress again as he rocked his hips against you slowly—cupping your cunt and his teeth leaving a trail of bites down your throat as his words whispered across the tiles.
You blushed.
He saw it—even above the flush of arousal, he saw your cheeks darken and your eyes flicker to the side at his words. Avoiding his gaze, expecting a hunter’s response of claws and teeth to your doe-like display of weakness—and his eyes softened minutely. Some of the aggressive tightness bled from his gaze which he hid in a nip to your jaw, the heel of his hand rubbing in tempting circles over your swollen clit while his fingers split along your entrance, smearing your slick over puffy lips.
You rocked your hips over his hand needily, fingers scratching down the sides of his neck, scoring passion into the tanned skin and whispers against his lips – please Din, please – along with the pleasurable pain rippling from your nails compelled him to shove two fingers knuckle deep into your tight cunt.
He covered your mouth quickly with his palm when an unadulterated moan ricocheted off the tiles, echoing louder – “fuck baby, quiet” – was hissed against your cheek even as his fingers picked up a merciless pace of pump pump pump, his thumb swiping across your clit, his speed building—making it harder for you to stay quiet as you whimpered against his hand.
Nails digging into his shoulders, you buried your face into his sweat slick neck when he dropped his hand from your mouth to hike your leg up over his arm, spread you wider for him to thrust soaked fingers into your sopping core.
When you came the first time, you bit his neck—his teeth baring from the sting while his fingers scissored against your convulsing walls, dragging you through contractions of pleasure that sent spikes of electricity to cloud your brain in a muffled babble of yes yes yes sobbed into his neck.
Condensation misted the tiles by your head as heat lifted from sweltering bodies. Din growled praise, rough rasps of “good girl, that’s it…” into your ear as you relaxed around fingers that were lazily curling up inside you, your mouth working lazily over the sensitive point where his jaw met his neck, nipping—licking, begging him to fuck you.
His brain short circuited.
His large body caging you against the wall, you preened and arched and tempted him into you with soft sighs of his name and your hands tracing down to the hem of his shorts. Heavy, lust-pooled eyed followed your hands, watching you pull him from his shorts and stroke him with expert fingers that never failed to make him fall apart—on your table, in your bed… you bewitched him with touch since first he met you. He was a slave to it.
“Fuck, baby—” he groaned, his head falling back before he swiped your hands away from his swollen length, giving it a few hard strokes as he ran the head between your exposed folds. He filled you with on thrust, a filthy squelch as your pussy accepted him – unable to be gentle, unable to take his time when all he could think of was claiming you over and again, of meeting your counterstrike with a knockout and hearing your surrender in cries of his name.
He was big—so big that every time he filled you, it felt like he was splitting you apart. The smallest hint of pain, the breach of his cock melting into a delicious fire that licked and coated your nerves as the fat head knocked against soft tissue inside you. He found his pace with a slow rut that dragged his cock along tight walls where you could feel every single vein throb enticingly against you.
His facial hair sanded across your cheek as he panted how good you felt, how tight—how addicted he was to the feel of you, how he wanted to fuck you for hours. Your nails curved down over the muscles of his shoulder blades, along his waist—basking in his size, his strength—his head lowering to scrape his teeth over the swell of your breast, sucking over the ghost of his previous mark and drawing blood back to the surface as he snapped his hips back into you.
And then the door to the locker room opened, and conversation filled it.
Din didn’t even think before slamming his fist onto the water pressure, drenching the two of you in seconds with cool water and drowning the sounds of his cock slamming into you with the hiss of water falling in rivulets down your bodies.
You moaned, too far gone to know – or care – that you weren’t alone, and his hand came back up to cover your mouth with a warning growl into your ear, “Shut up, unless you want to give them a show.”
Even as he said it, his pace grew harder—punching gasps and sounds of surprised pleasure from parted lips that were only mitigated by the calloused palm he folded over them. Your nipples pebbled through soaked fabric, drawing his eager mouth down to suck it raw through the dress, whimpers for more echoed in the tight clench of your cunt around his glistening length.
Steam filled the shower, bleeding out into the locker room where laughter and conversation blended to mask the wet slaps of his skin against yours, the sodden movement of clothes and his guttural groans around your nipple as you clawed at his undulating back.
“Din—” you whispered, panting as strands of your hair fell into your face—fucked out and divine when his mouth slanted over yours again, your chest heaving while one hand lifted to cup his jaw, keeping his mouth on yours. He snapped into the dripping grasp of your pussy hard, shoving you up the wall onto your toes, the graze of the short coarse hairs at the base of his cock tickling over your sensitive clit.
“So fucking loud…” he growled on a whip of anger, the sound cracking down the feral possessiveness of his tone and making you moan. He would spank that pretty ass red, your pussy pink if there wasn’t the risk of the sound carrying to the other athletes getting changed for their workout.
Oh well.
That just meant he would have to take you again later.
His balls tightened and his stomach clenched at the thought, fuck. He wanted you again and he hadn’t even cum yet—your tight little cunt already quivering and tightening around him with your oncoming orgasm as he lost himself in eyes flooded with open desire— disarming him with the candor he saw reflected in them. He swallowed thickly.
“Gonna ruin you, sweetheart,” was his immediate reaction, the only way he could think to reciprocate. A gush of wetness pushed around his cock drilling into you, your walls getting impossibly tighter, and he smirked darkly—his nose pressing into your cheek, teeth bared and feral, “you’d like that, huh?”
Delirious nods were all you were capable of as silent gasps kept your lips parted, eyes rolling back when his thumb dropped to draw tight, fixated little circles on your clit—forcing you over the edge with a final blow that sucked the breath right out of you, the boxer taking and taking and taking everything he wanted from you with wet thrusts and brutal bites to your already marked neck.
He swallowed your orgasm with his mouth, the wet strands of his hair dripping water onto your pretty face as he sucked your tongue into his mouth, dropping his free hand to slide down the length of your side as his thrust turned erratic, chasing his high—chasing that bliss he could only find buried deep inside you.
“Cum, Din—cum,” you breathed, cupping his face as you smiled—exhaustion written plain on your face and his brows pinched in concentration, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp of your name, breathless as he pulled out—his hand moving frantically over the swollen length of him until he coated your mound and dress with his release. It washed away in streaks of milky white down your body, a subtle pang of fatigued frustration to see it disappear so quickly flashing though him.
The locker room was silent when he turned the water pressure off.
Apart from your labored breathing, the locker room was silent—the prior occupants leaving none the wiser or – if they had heard anything – wisely leaving.
Din dropped your leg from where it remained hooked over his arm, his hands fisting in the skirt of your dress to drag the sodden material up and over your head with a shiver at the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothes.
The sight of your naked body made his softening cock twitch, dammit. You were all gentle curves and soft skin, clothed in the marks of his mouth and bruises of his grip.
He wanted you again.
And caged within his arms, trapped with his hands pressed either side of your head, his shaggy head of soaked waves falling into dark, guarded eyes—you could admit you wanted him again too.
“I’ll wash your dress,” he rasped gruffly, taking a step back from you and kicking off his shorts to wring out and toss into his gym bag. He left the shower with effortless calm, as if he wasn’t stark naked but returned with a towel for you to wrap yourself in.
You flashed him a grateful smile that stuttered when he tossed another – smaller – towel on your head, rubbing it quickly over your soaked locks despite your complaints, a crooked smirk your only indication he was playing.
“You don’t have t—”
“You can wait for it to dry at my place.”
His words brokered no argument as you padded after him into the empty locker room, the boxer rummaging through his own locker to pull out a simple white t-shirt—long enough to cover you… just about. The hem fell shorter than your dress and you were distinctly aware of your lack of underwear when you pulled it on.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he rumbled as he tugged a tight black muscle shirt over his head, looking down at you with a devastating smirk and sinfully half-lidded eyes, “I don’t share. No one will see you.”