#presseddeposal

Cate didn’t come here to sweat.

Let’s get that straight.

She came to wear a matching set so cute it could make people weep. To sip her green juice dramatically between stretches. To listen to her Pilates instructor over Bluetooth in one ear and her girlfriend grunting obscenely under a barbell in the other. To lean against the mirror in glossy lip balm and perfect eyeliner and bully you with her eyes while pretending to meditate.

And yet, here she is.

Front row to your personal flex-off, sitting on a nearby bench with her chin in her hand while you deadlift enough weight to kill an average man and make it look like foreplay.

“Three more,” Cate drawls, voice thick with boredom and barely-concealed lust. “Make it sexy.”

You glances at her in the mirror—already glistening with sweat, biceps bulging—and smirk.

“Only if you spot me later,” you pant, clearly teasing.

Cate gags. “I’d rather die. Or be crushed under you. Either’s fine.”

You just chuckle and finish the set, dropping the bar with a loud clang that draws more than a few looks. Not that you two don’t already have attention. You always do.

It’s not Cate’s fault she’s pretty. Or that her girlfriend looks like a punk rock demigod who came to the gym straight from a mosh pit and still smells like cedarwood and danger. She’s just trying to vibe. It’s not her fault if half the people here are suddenly distracted mid-rep.

“Wipe your forehead,” Cate says casually as you grab your towel. “You’re sweating on my fantasy.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you fire back, taking a long swig from your water bottle, throat working, veins still popped from exertion.

Cate’s brain flatlines for a moment.

“Okay, maybe I love it,” she mutters.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she stands, walks right up to you, and climbs you like a tree.

On the gym floor.

In front of everyone.

You barely stumble—just grunts as your arms instinctively wrap around her waist, steadying her. Cate’s legs slot around your hips. Her arms drape over your shoulders. It’s casual. Intimate. Obscene.

You tilt your head. “Is this part of my cooldown?”

Cate runs her fingers through the damp hair at the nape of your neck. “I’m your reward.”

Someone drops a dumbbell nearby. Someone else trips on a resistance band. Cate ignores it all, brushing her nose against yours with a smile that almost makes her knees buckle.

“You’re terrible,” you mutter.

“You’re lucky I don’t straddle you mid-bench press,” Cate whispers back. “Do you want me to ruin this school’s liability insurance?”

You laugh—soft and low and wrecked—and lean in to kiss her. Just a little one. Barely a brush. But it’s enough to make Cate’s toes curl in her sneakers.

You stay like that for a while, surrounded by judgment and jealousy and the quiet horror of every other gym-goer trying not to look.

Eventually, you shift. “Alright, c’mon, baby. You wanna do pull-ups?”

Cate blinks. “You mean emotionally?”

You smirk. “No. Physically.”

Cate looks deeply offended. “Absolutely not.”

You just kiss her again and mutter, “Pilates princess,” against her lips.

“Weightlifting whore,” Cate shoots back.

You go to separate machines. But not for long. Cate finds a way to “stretch” against your back. You adjust Cate’s form by dragging your fingers down her spine in a totally unnecessary way. The entire gym suffers.

And by the end?

Cate’s on the leg press—legs trembling, hair stuck to her forehead, glaring.

“I hate you.”

You’re crouched in front of her, holding her ankles, looking like you just won a trophy. “You love me.”

Cate sighs, loud and theatrical. “Unfortunately.”

By the time you make it to the locker room, Cate is over it.

Her thighs hurt. Her eyeliner’s sweating off. Her once-perfect Lululemon set is damp in unflattering places. Her hair is in a claw clip that’s barely holding on. And worst of all?

You look better now than you did before the workout.

Tank clinging to every inch of you, dark with sweat, collar loose enough to expose your chest tattoo and the way your sports bra never quite sits flat. Your smirk is cocky, your forearms are veiny, and when you pull the locker open, Cate has to look away to avoid whimpering at the sheer smug athleticism of it all.

Cate crosses her arms, leaning against the locker like a girl trying to maintain a single thread of dignity.

“This better not become a regular thing,” she mutters. “You dragging me to the gym and forcing me to watch you get all…shiny and hot and then make me do lunges. That’s abuse.”

You toss her a towel and peel off your tank in one motion.

Cate stares.

Drops the towel.

“…You were saying?” you tease, already turning toward the showers with your towel slung over one shoulder, the waistband of your shorts riding just low enough to reveal the inky black tattooed above your hips.

Cate doesn’t even try to be subtle about watching you walk away.

She picks up the towel and follows you.

The showers are mostly empty—thank God. Just a few other girls rinsing off in the first stalls, quiet, steam rising and fogging the mirrors near the entrance.

Cate claims the one at the end, furthest from the door, and steps inside already pulling off her sports bra. You’re close behind, kicking off your shoes, peeling your clothes away like they’re too tight to tolerate.

The second the warm water hits Cate’s shoulders, she lets out a groan.

You’re already in the next stall over, but the divider between you is barely a suggestion—an open curve of tile that does nothing to discourage misbehavior.

Cate cranes her neck.

“Why are you over there?”

You smirk. “Thought you needed space to recover.”

Cate scoffs. “What I need is your hands on me before I collapse and sue you for post-lunge trauma.”

You hum in agreement. And then you’re there—sliding into Cate’s shower stall, all steam and smugness, towel dropped somewhere, body wet and flushed and unfairly gorgeous.

Cate’s hands go to your shoulders instinctively.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi,” you reply, already ducking your head to kiss her.

It’s soft at first—warm water cascading over your backs, Cate pressed into the tile with her arms looped around your neck. But soft never stays that way with you. Not for long.

Your hands trail down her back, over her hips, gripping her thighs and lifting her without effort. Cate wraps around you like muscle memory, moaning into your mouth, water slicking your skin and steam wrapping you two in a haze.

Cate noses along your jaw, breath hitching. “You always like getting dirty just to clean up like this?”

You bite her earlobe. “I like it when you smell like lavender and sweat.”

Cate gasps. Then bites your lip.

“You are so lucky we’re the only ones in here now.”

You groan and press your hips forward, pinning Cate against the wall. “I wouldn’t care if we weren’t.”

“Baby.”

“Let ‘em hear it.”

Cate whines—actually whines—and it’s all over after that.

The water keeps running.

The tile gets slippery.

Cate’s back hits it with a wet slap—not hard, but decisive. Like you’re staking your claim in steam and skin and the scent of Cate’s conditioner. Water pours over you in sheets, catching in the curve of Cate’s collarbone, beading down her thighs, turning her hair to wet, golden ropes.

She gasps, head tilting back, mouth parting—but not from the heat of the water.

From the heat of you.

Your hands are under her thighs, gripping just above her knees, holding her up like she weighs nothing. Your body is slick, flushed, muscles twitching from the earlier workout, and you’re already mouthing at Cate’s jaw, her neck, the underside of her ear like you need to taste her.

Cate is gone.

Melting. Moaning. Completely undone by the sheer audacity of it all.

“You’re—” she tries to say, but her voice breaks on a breathless gasp as you roll your hips forward, grinding against her, slow and deliberate, cock hard and heavy between you.

“Mm?” you murmur, lips brushing her ear. “What am I?”

Cate shudders.

“A menace,” she manages. “A menace with a god complex.”

You huff a laugh against her skin. “You love me.”

“An unfortunate curse.”

But she says it with a grin—eyes fluttering, arms locked around your shoulders like you’re the only thing keeping her upright. You are.

You shift your grip, one arm fully anchoring Cate’s thighs, the other trailing up her spine, fingers tangling in her wet hair.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you whisper. And then—lower—hungrier. “Tell me if you want more.”

Cate leans in until your foreheads touch.

“I want everything.”

You kiss her hard then—no pretense, no warm-up. Just heat and tongue and teeth, all-consuming, dizzying. Cate moans into it, fingers curling at the nape of your neck, hips canting forward until she’s rubbing against you in tight, slick little lines, chasing friction like a girl possessed.

The water drowns out almost everything else—but not the sounds you make. Low, wrecked groans in the back of your throat. The desperate exhale when Cate drags her nails down your back. The broken gasp when Cate whimpers, "Please," against your mouth.

You grab her harder.

Lift her higher.

And push in.

Cate cries out.

It’s not pain. It’s not even surprise. It’s relief. A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding finally released. Her back arches against the wall, head tipping up, neck bared, water rushing down her chest in waves as her cunt takes you, inch by inch, like she was made for you.

You groan into her shoulder.

“Fuck, you feel so good—”

Cate nods wildly, lost in sensation, grinding down to meet every thrust with a desperate little sob. It’s sloppy. No rhythm. Just need. The build-up from earlier, the teasing, the tension of holding it in—this is the fallout.

And god, Cate wants to drown in it.

She clings to you tighter, hands scrabbling across slippery shoulders, jaw slack, eyes glazed.

“Don’t stop,” she breathes. “Don’t—don’t you dare—”

“I won’t,” you promise, voice cracking. “I won’t. I’ve got you, baby.”

You fuck her against the wall, slow but deep, water cascading around you like a curtain. Holding her up the whole time, worshiping her like a religion, while Cate clings to you and moans your name like a spell. Cate’s moaning, babbling now—nothing coherent, just sounds, vowels stretched around pleasure too sharp to swallow. It’s messy. Loud. Dangerous.

And when she cums—

It’s like a wave breaking.

Full-body. Bone-deep. She spasms in your arms, nails digging in, mouth open in a silent cry as her orgasm crashes through her.

You curse and follow a moment later—slamming in hard once, twice, then groaning against Cate’s neck as you spill inside her, trembling with the force of it.

You stay like that for a long moment.

Clinging. Breathing. Trembling under the water, your skin pink from heat, your shared heartbeat thudding so loud Cate swears it echoes through the tile.

Eventually, Cate slumps against you, utterly wrecked.

You lean back just enough to kiss her, softer this time. Slower. Like thank you. Like I love you. Like always.

Cate sighs. “So…”

You kiss her temple. “So?”

“You’re definitely carrying me out of here.”

You grin against her skin. “Already planned on it.”

By the time they make it back to Cate’s dorm, she’s wearing your hoodie and a pair of borrowed shorts she’s practically swimming in. Her legs still wobble every time she takes the stairs. Her hair’s towel-dried, braided lazily down one side, and her cheeks are still flushed like her body doesn’t realize she’s out of the shower.

You look freshly fucked and unbothered. Smug, even, unlocking the door with your usual casual flair—backwards, balancing a smoothie Cate made you detour for (aka a bribe to get you out of the gym faster). The door shuts with a soft click.

Cate drops onto her bed dramatically, arms spread like a Victorian heroine fading away from scandal.

“I’m broken.”

You set the smoothie down and kick off your shoes. “You said that at the gym.”

“No,” Cate whines, “I was emotionally broken at the gym. This is muscular. My ass is sore. My hips are sore. My soul is sore. And my vagina has officially filed a lawsuit against you.”

You raise an eyebrow, crawling up the bed to hover over her.

“Poor baby,” you say, not sounding the least bit sorry. “What can I do to help?”

Cate squints up at you, lips pouting. “Massage. Obviously.”

You hum and lean in, your lips brushing the corner of Cate’s mouth. “That sounds suspiciously like a trap.”

Cate gasps, full offense. “I am too tired to trap you. I’m a victim. A sore, sweet, helpless little bunny who just needs her big strong girlfriend to—oh my god, are you laughing at me?”

You are, in fact, laughing. You press a kiss to Cate’s cheek as a peace offering.

“Alright, roll over.”

Cate blinks. “Wait, really?”

“I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

She does as she’s told, flopping face-down into the mattress and adjusting your hoodie so it rides up just enough to expose the small of her back.

She feels the bed dip. The press of thighs on either side of her hips.

Then—contact.

Warm hands. Firm, slow pressure. Your fingers kneading into the tight knots in her lower back like you know exactly where she’s sore (you do). Cate moans before she can stop herself.

“Fuuuuck,” she mumbles into her pillow. “Okay. Fine. You’re forgiven.”

You chuckle quietly and lean in, dragging your thumbs up Cate’s spine, slow and steady.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I deserve it.”

“You’re also wet again.”

Cate yelps. “I am not!”

You trace her thumbs in little circles, just above her waistband now. “You are.”

Cate groans. “This was supposed to be a wholesome recovery massage.”

You lean down until your lips brush the shell of Cate’s ear.

“You sure about that?”

Cate turns her head slowly. Glares at you over her shoulder.

“Do you want to be the one who has to tell Andre why I missed our supe marketing presentation tomorrow?”

You shrug, looking way too relaxed for someone actively straddling your girlfriend.

“I’ll just tell him you pulled something.”

Cate squints. “Like a hamstring?”

“Like my dick, baby.”

Cate buries her face in the pillow and screams.

You laugh and lean down again, this time kissing her between the shoulder blades, soft and slow.

“I’ll behave,” you murmur. “Unless you ask me not to.”

Cate sighs. Turns her head again, already melting under the pressure of your hands as they work their way up to her shoulders.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispers.

“You’re glowing.”

Cate smiles into the sheets. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Cate lets out one more sigh. Reaches blindly behind her and laces your fingers together. Ending their familiar back and forth banter with an exasperated “Unfortunately.”

They fall asleep like that—limbs tangled, muscles sore, skin still sticky from sweat and smugness. Cate drifts off swearing she won’t be able to move in the morning.

She’s right.

When she stirs, it’s to the feeling of soft lips pressing against her forehead.

“Hey, baby,” you whisper, voice all gravel and heat, still damp from a shower. “I’m heading to the gym.”

Cate groans like she’s being personally wronged. Her body refuses to move. Her thighs ache. Her core twinges. Her entire lower half feels like it’s been tenderized.

“No,” she mumbles into the pillow. “Tell the gym I’m dead.”

You laugh quietly, still crouched down eye level with the bed, and kiss her again, slower this time. “I’ll be back in an hour. Two max.”

Cate blindly gropes for your arm, clutching you like a spoiled housecat. “Don’t goooo. I need you. I’m sore. I’m emotionally fragile. I might never walk again.”

“You said that last time.”

“I meant it last time.”

You manage to untangle yourself and walk toward the mini-fridge, pulling out an ice pack. You wrap it in a towel and pad back over, gently laying it across Cate’s hips like you’re offering penance.

Cate opens one eye. “You didn’t.”

You grin. “Recovery queen deserves proper care.”

“You’re disgusting,” Cate whispers, smiling despite herself.

“You love me,” you reply.

Cate just grumbles, already sinking back into the sheets, her face buried in the hoodie you left behind. The door clicks shut a minute later.

And for a little while, she is fine. Nestled in bed. Soft. Safe. Smelling like lavender and sleep and her stupid, hot gym rat of a girlfriend.

Until it happens.

It starts with a mirror selfie.

Nothing overtly sinful—your front-facing camera skills weren’t anything to write home about. Just you in the gym locker room, hair tied up messily, sports bra damp at the neckline, flushed and smirking. Your other hand still gripping the hem of your tank top, mid-lift, just enough to show the deep V of your abs and that trail Cate had once threatened to follow with her tongue for an hour straight.

Miss you, bunny, the caption read. Followed by a red heart. And then: Want me to pick up a smoothie for you or do you want something saltier?

Cate was curled up on the couch when she got it, feet tucked beneath her cashmere blanket, a candle flickering on the end table and some pointless prestige drama playing in the background while she attempted to journal. She’d chosen not to go to the gym this morning. Her legs were still wobbly from yesterday and she liked pretending she needed recovery time. Liked the ache. Liked knowing exactly why she was sore.

But now?

Now she regrets everything.

Her fingers twitched. She stared at the photo too long. Zoomed in. Zoomed in again. Tried not to make an actual sound when she noticed the slight bulge in your compression shorts and the barely-there smirk that meant you knew. Knew what you were doing. Knew exactly the fucking chaos this would cause.

[CATE] : you absolute whore.

[YOU] : your whore<3

[CATE] : i hope that mirror cracks from how obscene you're being. put your shirt back on, slut.

[CATE] : actually. don’t. i wanna suffer.

You sent another photo. This one angled from below—arm flexed, your bicep glistening, sweat trailing from your jaw down your neck and disappearing beneath the collar of your sports bra. Cate whimpered.

Not like a joke-whimper. A real one. Sharp and pathetic and high in her throat, the kind that made her press her thighs together like that would do anything.

She set her phone down for a full six seconds before picking it back up again. She needed to stay in control. She had pride. She had—

A video arrived.

Soundless. But it didn’t need sound. You at the squat rack, drenched and panting, the waistband of your shorts yanked a little lower so the tattoos on your hips peeked out. Your ass straining with every rep. Your thighs trembling. Cate nearly blacked out.

[CATE] : that’s it. i’m breaking up with you.

[YOU] : sure baby. just let me come home and fuck you first.

[CATE] : no because you don’t understand what you’ve done to me. i’m not even kidding. i was fine. i was journaling. i was lighting a candle. now i’m wet and insane and mad and in LOVE and it’s YOUR fault.

[CATE] : i’m gonna pass away. i’m gonna die and it’s gonna be because my girlfriend is too hot at the gym. they’re gonna find me curled up on the floor in your sweatshirt with a ruined pair of underwear and a locked phone that says "babe" with a devil emoji.

[CATE] : i hate you. i love you. i hate how much i love you.

Another photo. This one was blurry, you leaning against the wall post-workout, face flushed and hair sticking to your forehead, tongue out slightly. Cate shrieked into a pillow.

Then another message:

[YOU] : what if I just come home now and fuck you against the door. it’s good cardio.

[CATE] : what if you came home and i was waiting in just your shirt with my legs spread on the bed.

[YOU] : ...

[YOU] : i’m leaving the gym right now.

[CATE] : RUN don’t walk.

[CATE] : you better not stop for that smoothie unless you want me to drink it off you.

[CATE] : i’m so serious, babe. i’m gonna ruin your life when you walk through that door.

[CATE] : i’m gonna take one look at you and fall to my knees. i’m not even kidding. i’ll cry about it later. i’ll write it in my gratitude journal. i’ll tell marie it was a religious experience.

A pause.

[CATE] : i’m not wearing panties fyi.

You heart-reacted that one. And then sent a photo of you in the car, gym bag in the passenger seat, a visible sweat stain on your tank and your thumb hooked in your waistband.

[YOU] : 10 minutes.

Cate tossed her phone onto the couch and shot upright, bolting to her closet and muttering to herself like a woman possessed. She nearly tripped over her own feet in the process of tearing open her drawer to yank out the oldest, softest shirt you owned—the faded The Clash tee with the neck cut out—and slipped it on with nothing underneath. Her skin still smelled like lavender lotion. Her lip gloss was already smeared. She didn’t care.

By the time she perched herself on the bed—legs bare, shirt hitched up just enough to tease, a trembling hand running through her hair—she was panting.

And when the key turned in the door, she didn’t even flinch.

She just smiled.

Like the chaos had never happened.

Like she hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes sexting with the desperation of a woman in a Victorian novel and the vocabulary of a feral raccoon.

You stepped inside.

Stopped.

Stared.

“…Holy shit,” you said.

Cate tilted her head.

“Welcome home,” she purred.

She doesn’t even give you a second to blink.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Cate’s already sliding off the bed like a siren answering a call, bare thighs brushing soft fabric on the way down. The oversized shirt hangs just low enough to look modest if you squint—until she moves. Until she walks. Until the hem lifts with every step and you realize she’s wearing nothing underneath, just long legs and attitude and that look on her face. The one that says you’re fucked, and thank god for that.

You drop your keys.

Literally—just let them clatter to the floor. Your gym bag thumps down beside them, forgotten, because Cate’s already crossing the room with lazy, predatory grace, arms swinging loose at her sides, mouth wet and pink and curled into a grin that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You made good time,” she says, voice sticky-sweet, breathy at the edges.

You can’t seem to answer. Your jaw works uselessly, eyes dragging from Cate’s legs to her mouth to her thighs again. You take a step forward—and Cate takes one back.

“Nope,” she says, wagging a finger. “You don’t get to touch me yet.”

You look like you might collapse.

Cate hums and tilts her head. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? Sitting here like a good little girlfriend, trying to hydrate and journal and center my fucking self—”

You groan, low and ragged, because you know where this is going.

Cate leans in. Lets her breath ghost over your flushed, sweat-slick collarbone. Doesn’t touch. Just…hovers. Her lips part like she’s going to bite, or beg, but she holds steady.

“You sent me a video, baby,” she whispers. “You sent me a video of your ass like it was a gift and then left me here to rot.”

“You said you weren’t coming with me today,” you rasp.

Cate gasps. Clutches her chest like she’s been stabbed.

“Are you seriously blaming me for your little thirst trap campaign?”

“I was motivating you!”

“You were edging me!” Cate hisses. “You were practically fucking me through the phone and you knew it, you smug, sweaty, sexy—” Her fingers curl in the front of your tank top and yank.

It comes off so fast it leaves you dizzy, gym-tired muscles on full display, your sports bra damp and clinging and halfway translucent from sweat. Cate moans. Like, full-bodied, completely unashamed.

And then she’s backing away again—retreating toward the bed with a coy little smirk, her legs long and bare, shirt swaying with every step.

“You want me?” she purrs.

You growl.

“Then get on your knees.”

You don't even hesitate. Just drop to your knees on the linoleum, tattoos flexing across your forearms as you sink down, eyes blazing with something feral. Cate’s breath catches. Her thighs press together. She feels a little dizzy.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “You’re actually doing it.”

“You told me to,” you say, grinning as you prowl forward on hands and knees. “Didn’t want you to get mad again.”

Cate lets out a squeaky little noise that is definitely not a whimper. She turns on her heel. Giggling. Barefoot, flushed, glowing. And she knows you’re coming after her. Knows the second she takes another step that those strong arms are seconds behind her.

She only makes it two steps before she’s caught.

Your arms lock around her waist and lift, spinning her midair like she weighs nothing. Cate shrieks—then laughs—then melts entirely as her back hits the bathroom door and your mouth lands on hers, hot and hungry and tasting like salt and protein bars and power.

Cate clutches your shoulders. Wraps her legs around your waist. Grinds down on you like she’s got something to prove.

“You’re disgusting,” she gasps between kisses.

“You started it.”

“You sent it—”

“And you liked it.”

Cate bites her lower lip. Huffs. Pulls back enough to meet your eyes and says, soft and serious:

“I loved it.”

Your knees buckle a little.

Cate leans in again, nose brushing yours. “Now put me on the fucking bed and show me how much cardio means to you.”

You practically growl. Cate doesn’t flinch—just grins wicked and clutches tighter around your waist like she’s the one in control. Like she hasn’t been unraveling via text all morning. Like she’s not still wet from a single slow-motion video of squats.

She kisses you again—deeper this time. Sloppier. The kind of kiss that comes with years of muscle memory and barely-restrained chaos. Teeth clicking. Tongues sliding. Her fingers tangle in the sweat-damp roots of your hair and yank. Just a little.

“Take it off,” Cate whispers. “Everything.”

You groan into her neck. “You’re not even pretending to be patient anymore, huh?”

“Did you look patient in that locker room selfie?” Cate shoots back, writhing as her back thuds gently against the door again. “Take. It. Off.”

And you do.

The sports bra goes first—tugged over your head and flung somewhere in the direction of Cate’s shoe rack. Cate watches, wide-eyed, breathing hard, pupils blown as the ink blooms across your chest, the sleek sweat shining on your collarbones, the twitch of muscle down your stomach.

Then your hands slide up the backs of her thighs.

“Your turn.”

Cate huffs out a gasp when she’s lifted again—again—and you carry her across the room like a problem you’ve already solved. Tossing her gently onto the mattress and following close behind, caging her in with arms and scent and heat.

Cate reaches for you—hands greedy, eyes glassy—but you pin her wrists above her head with a grin that says no no no, you wanted this, remember?

Cate whines. Kicks her heels once into the bed.

“I hate when you’re strong,” she mutters.

“No you don’t.”

Cate pouts. “Fine. I don’t. But you better ruin me now.”

You kiss the corner of her mouth. Then her jaw. Her neck. Down, down, down, teeth scraping lightly where her pulse throbs.

“I plan to.”

The mattress dips under your weight, and Cate swears she feels it in her chest—a lurching, fluttering pull like gravity’s playing favorites. The room is warm with leftover sunlight, dust drifting in the slant of it, and all she can think is: this is gonna ruin me.

You kneel between her thighs and just look at her. Like you have all the time in the world. Like Cate isn’t already flushed and trembling in your shirt, the hem rucked up dangerously high from when she got tossed. She’s spread out like a bribe. Like bait. Like she wants to be caught again and again until the seams of her ego are split wide open.

You plant one hand beside her head, the other trailing slow down her side, lazy, possessive, making Cate shiver under the weight of your stare.

“Still mad at me?” you murmur.

Cate glares.

Then gasps when your palm drags up her bare thigh and slips just beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips barely brushing.

“I haven’t decided,” Cate breathes.

Your smile turns mean. “Guess I’ll have to work harder.”

You lean down, lips ghosting over Cate’s collarbone, your mouth hot and slow as you kiss across it. Cate squirms—more from anticipation than anything else—her breathing shallow now, uneven. You haven't even touched her yet. Not really.

“Mm. You smell like lavender and…attitude,” you mutter, voice low and hungry.

“I lit a candle,” Cate says faintly. “For peace.”

You hum. “How’d that work out for you?”

Cate gasps again when your mouth finally seals around the hollow of her throat—wet and soft and insistent, sucking until Cate’s toes curl and she arches into the touch.

“It didn’t,” she whispers. “You broke me.”

Your tongue traces the mark you’ve left before you murmur, “Good.”

You mouth lower. Over Cate’s chest, her ribs, the curve of her waist. Each kiss is more than that—it’s a claim, a promise, a you’re mine. And Cate is. Pathetically, desperately, willingly.

The shirt rises with every movement, you pushing it up inch by inch with your nose, your chin, until Cate’s stomach is exposed and trembling, her nipples hard beneath the soft cotton. Cate whines and lifts her hips, trying to hurry the process along, but you only laugh.

“Impatient,” you tease.

“I’m suffering.”

“You started this.”

“I’m ending it.”

Cate sits up, grabs the hem of the shirt herself, and yanks it over her head in one smooth motion, hair spilling down around her shoulders as the fabric hits the floor.

You still.

Cate waits.

“You’re so—” you begin, but it’s too much. You just lean down and kiss her again, rougher this time, messier. Cate moans into it, lets her legs fall open around your waist and rolls her hips up, deliberate and slow, dragging the length of you against her core.

You break the kiss with a gasp and a curse.

“Fucking hell. You’re soaked.”

Cate’s lashes flutter. “Gee, I wonder why.”

That earns her a bite—gentle, but still sharp—at the corner of her jaw. You press her down again, both hands bracketing her face now, eyes dark with restraint.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Last chance. You want me to stop?”

Cate doesn’t hesitate. Just lifts her chin and whispers:

“If you stop, I’ll kill you.”

You laugh once—breathless—and kiss her like it’s the last time. Like you’ve been starving. Your hand slides down, between Cate’s legs, and when your fingers finally slip through slick heat, Cate cries out, body jolting against the mattress.

“Fuck, baby,” you murmur, voice thick with awe. “Look at you.”

Cate’s head falls back, mouth parted, hands fisting in the sheets. “Do something, please—”

“I am.” you stroke her slowly, deliberately, like you’re trying to memorize the way she feels. Your thumb circles gently, rhythm building, and Cate’s thighs twitch, her stomach tensing as her hips chase the motion.

She’s already close. Ridiculously close. It’s been hours of buildup and teasing and filthy texts and now you’re here, real, solid, hers.

“Baby—” she gasps. “Oh my god—”

“I got you,” you say, voice low and certain, like a vow. “Let go.”

Cate does.

With a sob and a shudder, her whole body arches, legs shaking, hands flying to grip your shoulders like she’ll fly away otherwise. The orgasm hits fast, sharp and overwhelming, and she wails, eyes squeezed shut, every nerve in her body lighting up like a struck match.

You don't stop. Kissing Cate through it, stroking her, murmuring praises that Cate barely registers over the white-noise buzz in her ears.

When she comes down, she’s breathless and boneless, limp against the mattress, hair sticking to her temple.

And you just grin.

“Round one,” you say.

Cate groans into a pillow. “I hate you.”

“You love me.” you exhale, always that specific reminder as if Cate ever really means it.

“I do, but I hate that I do.”

Your hand slides to her thigh again. Cate gasps.

“...Don’t you dare,” she warns, still shaking.

“Oh, I dare.”

Cate lies there flushed and trembling, skin damp, ribs fluttering under the weight of every ragged inhale. Her thighs twitch each time your hand so much as brushes her, and she tries to summon words—witty ones, sharp ones, anything—but her mouth just opens and closes uselessly.

Which is exactly when you lean in, kiss her slowly, and say into her mouth:

“I’m not nearly done with you.”

Cate’s breath catches. Her eyes flutter open, wide and glossy.

“Baby—”

But her protest is weak. Soft. The kind that wants to be ignored. And you know her too well to fall for it.

“Shh,” you murmur, nipping at her earlobe. “You said I ruined you, remember? So let me finish the job.”

Cate’s whole body arches when you grip her hips and flip her over in one seamless, devastating movement—face-first into the mattress, legs tangled in the sheets, breath hitching as she squirms instinctively.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “You’re such a dick.”

“And you,” you purr, dragging your nails down the backs of Cate’s thighs, slow and teasing, “are so bratty for someone who begged for this over text.”

“I didn’t beg,” Cate snaps, cheek smushed into the pillow.

You chuckle. “You literally said—and I quote—I’m gonna fall to my knees and cry about it later.”

Cate whines.

Then gasps—because your hands are spreading her open, thumbs pressed to the swell of her ass, mouth hovering just barely over her skin.

“Babe—baby, oh my god, don’t you—”

But it’s too late.

You dip your head and lick.

Cate screams.

She kicks once, purely out of instinct, but you just laugh against her and pin her hips down harder, holding her in place like this is what you were born to do. Cate moans—high and desperate and completely wrecked.

“You taste like heaven,” you mutter between strokes, voice low and reverent, tongue slick and hot and fucking ruthless against her cunt. Cate claws at the sheets. Her legs spread wider. Her brain short-circuits.

“You’re a menace,” she gasps, panting, sobbing. “You’re evil. I’m gonna die—”

But you don't stop.

You lick and suck and hum, nose brushing where Cate’s slick is dripping down her thighs, and Cate loses it. Her body is bucking, her hips trying to lift off the bed and run away and chase more all at once, but you’ve got her pinned—held—and it only makes her wetter.

It’s obscene, the sounds Cate is making. Loud, high, needy. The kind of sounds that would make someone blush if they weren’t already in the middle of this goddamn exorcism.

And then—

“C’mon, baby,” you murmur, lips slick, voice wrecked and hungry. “Let go for me again. Just like that. I got you.”

Cate sobs something that might be a curse or a prayer.

And then she’s cumming.

Harder than before. Sharper. Her body curls and convulses, mouth open in a silent scream, legs shaking so hard she nearly kicks the nightstand. She’s soaked. Sprawled. Utterly destroyed.

You press one last kiss to her inner thigh before finally—finally—climbing back up her body.

Cate doesn’t move.

She’s limp. Gone. Drenched in sweat and shaking all over, hair stuck to her neck, one hand barely lifting to grab your forearm and cling.

You settle beside her, wrap an arm around her waist, and pull her back into your chest, spooning her with all the tenderness in the world.

Cate sighs. Then groans. Then lets her head fall back against your shoulder.

“You’re evil.”

“I’m thorough.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Cate doesn’t say anything for a moment. She just breathes. Soaks in the warmth and the scent and the feeling of your chest against her back.

Then she murmurs:

“…My legs don’t work.”

You smirk against her neck. “Perfect. Means you’re staying right here.”

You lie tangled in the ruins of the bed—sheets halfway to the floor, your discarded clothes kicked beneath the dresser, Cate’s hair a full disaster and her skin still glowing with sweat and leftover bliss.

You’re propped up on one elbow now, watching Cate like she might dissolve if you blink too long.

Cate covers her face with her hands.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she mumbles.

“You’re cute.”

“I’m devastated.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I haven’t walked right in over a year.”

You chuckle, low and proud, and lean in to press a kiss to Cate’s bare shoulder. “My bad.”

Cate cracks one eye open.

“You still smell like the gym.”

You shrug. “You like it.”

Cate rolls to her side and buries her face in your chest. “I’m never letting you go back there alone again.”

“What, you gonna chaperone me like a horny lifeguard?”

“Yup,” she mutters. “Gonna stand by the squat rack in six-inch heels and make direct eye contact with anyone who dares to look at you.”

You laugh and curl around her tighter. “You’re insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

You stay like that a long time—Cate tracing lazy patterns into your hip, you brushing sweat-damp curls back from her forehead, neither of you moving much except to breathe.

Eventually:

“Hey,” Cate murmurs. “Be honest.”

“Mhm?”

“…Did you mean it? When you said you said you’d get on your knees for me?”

You blinked. Then smirk.

“I’d do it again right now if you asked.”

Cate blushes so hard it makes her toes curl.

“Oh my god,” she whines, hiding her face again. “Stop being hot, I’m tired.”

You just laugh softly behind her, pressing a lazy kiss to her shoulder like you didn’t just ruin Cate’s entire nervous system. Your hand settles low on Cate’s waist—light, possessive, infuriatingly gentle. Cate breathes in the warmth of it, lets herself go boneless for a moment, eyes fluttering shut.

Maybe she is tired. Maybe she’ll just lie here and bask in the afterglow until her legs stop shaking and her ego reboots.

Cate relaxes for a beat. Just a beat.

She tells herself she needs recovery time. That this is a temporary surrender.

But somewhere in the haze of post-orgasm fog, a darker urge begins to bubble.

Satisfaction, Cate decides, is a two-way street.

And her girlfriend? Still suspiciously smug for someone who hasn’t cum yet.

Still hard. Still untouched.

And that simply will not do.

Cate starts willing her body to cooperate.

Come on. Come on. Wake up. Get it together. We have a mission.

A tingle in her thigh. A pulse in her calves. Numbness fading like the slow return of memory.

It starts with a twitch.

A little one. Harmless. Just a flex of her foot beneath the sheets.

Then another.

Then Cate lifts her leg—testing, tentative—and finds she can. It’s not perfect. She’s still sore, obviously. Still shaking. But her blood is flowing again, and her brain has rebooted enough to remember exactly who she is.

Cate Dunlap.

Certified menace. Professional brat. Revenge artist.

You’re already dozing behind her, smug and sleepy, one arm draped possessively around her waist, the other folded beneath your cheek. Your breath is warm on Cate’s neck. Your heart beats steady and slow against Cate’s back. You smell like sweat and skin and the afterglow of being entirely too good at your job.

Cate wiggles her hips. Just a little.

You hum sleepily and pull her closer. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” Cate whispers innocently, tilting her head. “I’m finishing.”

You lift your head, just enough to blink down at her, eyes still half-lidded and dazed. “Your legs just stopped convulsing.”

Cate turns in your arms—slow, sinuous, wicked. Her hair is a mess, her cheeks are flushed, and there’s still a visible bite mark blooming on the side of her neck.

And she’s smiling.

“Exactly,” she purrs. “That was the reboot. Now it’s time to update the system.”

You groan. “Babe—”

Cate swings a leg over your waist, straddling you in one smooth motion, and presses a palm flat to your chest. “Nope. You don’t get to babe your way out of this. You fucked me into another dimension. I saw God. I screamed into a pillow. You sent me videos.”

You open your mouth to argue—then close it again.

Cate cocks her head. “That’s what I thought.”

Your hands fall to Cate’s thighs, gripping tight, and fuck if that doesn’t make Cate stutter for just a second. But she recovers fast. Leans in. Trails her fingers over your collarbone, down your sternum, watching you shiver.

“I should make you beg,” she says sweetly. “I should tie your hands and edge you until you scream my name into a pillow.”

You’re breathing harder now. Your grip on Cate’s thighs tightens.

“You wanna beg, baby?” Cate whispers, leaning down until her lips brush your ear. “Say please.”

And you do.

Immediately. Desperately. “Please.”

Cate shudders.

“Please what?”

“Please—” your voice cracks. “Cate, baby, please—”

“Oh, she’s already gone,” Cate coos, dragging her fingers further down your chest, slow and taunting. “You think you’re in control just because you’ve got arms like a Greek God and a tongue like a weapon? You think I didn’t spend the last half hour planning your demise?”

Your whole body arches.

“Hands up,” Cate orders.

You obey.

Cate leans back just enough to grind down against you, dragging herself over your lap with lazy, devastating friction—and the sound you make is criminal. Choked and half-feral, your eyes fluttering shut as your head falls back against the pillow.

Cate reaches down and wraps her hand around your cock—still rock hard, still aching—and squeezes just enough to make you tremble.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “I’m sorry—fuck, baby, I’m so sorry—”

Cate leans in, nose brushing hers. “You will be.”

And then she sinks down.

You cry out—sharp and broken, like the breath’s been punched out of your lungs—and Cate moans, head falling forward, fingers scrambling for your shoulders.

You both go still. Just for a second. Just to feel it. Cate stretched wide, full and shaking all over again, and you—already panting, trying not to lose it on the first thrust.

“I should make you wait,” Cate breathes.

You nod, wild-eyed. “You can, I’ll wait, I swear—”

Cate rolls her hips.

And that’s it.

You howl.

“Cate—baby—fuck, I’m gonna—please—”

“Shut up,” Cate whispers, moving again. “I’m getting revenge.”

Cate rides you slowly at first.

Painfully, deliberately slow.

Every motion is languid, controlled—hips rolling with surgical precision as her nails dig into your chest for balance, her hair falling around her shoulders in messy waves like some kind of glittering sex goddess. Her thighs tremble, but she doesn’t let it show. Not yet. This is performance art. This is justice.

You’re already writhing beneath her.

You’re so sensitive, Cate realizes with a savage kind of glee. All that post-gym adrenaline and afterglow has you completely undone. Your jaw is slack, your hands fists in the sheets above your head, your body arching desperately each time Cate sinks down and grinds her hips in a tight little circle.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes rolling. “Cate—baby, please—please—”

Cate smiles. Beams, actually. Downright radiant with vengeance and love and power.

“You okay, sweet thing?” she coos, clenching just enough to make you jolt.

You whimper.

Cate leans forward and cups your face, thumb stroking over the edge of your jaw, so soft. So fucking tender.

“You were so cocky earlier,” she whispers, rocking her hips a little faster. “Sending me videos. Making me drool. Turning me into a mess.”

Your eyes flutter open, bright and glassy. Your breath catches.

Cate grinds down again—hard this time. Tight and deep. You choke.

“And now look at you,” Cate murmurs. “Begging me like it’s your last goddamn meal.”

“I’m—fuck, Cate, I’m—I can’t—”

“You can.”

Cate pulls back, sits up fully, her fingers trailing down your torso like she owns it—because she does. She’s glowing, sweat-damp and flushed, her thighs shaking but her pace picking up, and the second she starts bouncing in earnest—tight, hot, slick—all of your control shatters.

Your hands fly to Cate’s hips. Not to stop her. Not even to slow her. Just to hold on.

“Fuck—Cate—Cate—oh my god, baby, I’m gonna—”

“Already?” Cate gasps mockingly. “You’re gonna cum already? From this?”

You whine. Your whole body trembles. Cate leans in and whispers into your open mouth:

“You’re so easy for me, baby.”

You scream, cumming hard, head thrown back, every muscle in your body seizing as you pulse inside her. Cate keeps going—grinding through it, dragging it out, milking your cock until your voice breaks and you’re whimpering, twitching, begging without words.

Cate finally stills, body trembling from the effort, her knees sore, her throat dry—and you? Wrecked. Gutted. Melted across the bed in a sweaty, shaking heap of freckles and wide, ruined eyes.

Cate collapses on top of you, laughing breathlessly.

You don't move.

Not even a twitch.

After a long beat:

“…You okay down there?” Cate hums.

You groan. “I don’t know what year it is.”

Cate snorts.

You blindly pat her thigh. “I think you broke my soul.”

Cate kisses your chin. “Good. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before sending me thirst traps while I’m trying to manifest peace.”

You groan again, dragging a hand over your face.

“You’re insane.”

“You love that about me.”

“I do,” you sigh. “Which is also how I know you’re going to want cuddles in, like…thirty seconds.”

Cate blinks innocently. “Am I not already on your chest?”

“Yeah, and you’re going to want me to hold you and rub your back.”

Cate shrugs. “Revenge is exhausting.”

You laugh, hoarse and tender, and pull the blanket up around you both. Cate nuzzles in like she didn’t just fuck you into a new dimension out of revenge, drapes an arm over your waist and presses a kiss to your neck.

“Next time,” she whispers, smug and sleepy, “you’re crawling into my lap.”

You shudder.

“…Yes, baby.”

Cate wakes up with purpose.

You, tragically, do not.

You’re sprawled across the bed like a corpse, hair a disaster, mouth slightly open, arms flung wide like you’re still trying to hold onto Cate in your sleep. Your discarded hoodie is missing (Cate stole it), your neck is covered in fading hickeys (Cate’s fault), and your groan when Cate nudges you with a knee is so pitiful it makes her grin.

“Up,” Cate chirps, full ponytail and sports bra already on. “We’re late.”

You roll over and groan into the void. “It’s Saturday. What could we possibly be late for that’s not illegal?”

Cate straddles you casually. “Pilates.”

You still.

Then slowly look up, bleary-eyed and suspicious. “Come again?”

“Payback,” Cate says sweetly. “You made me do squats. You made me sweat. You fucked me til I couldn’t feel my legs. Now…you’re coming with me to the clean girl Olympics. Let’s go, muscle girl. Hope you like lemon water and thirty minutes of deep core stabilization.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow. “I hate it here.”

An hour later, Cate’s glowing.

Her matching set is a dusty rose today. Her socks are tall and ribbed. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail and she’s already finished her greens. She waves politely to the instructor like she’s not actively dragging her sulky, inked-up, entirely out-of-place girlfriend behind her like a surly mastiff on a leash.

You’re in a black tank and basketball shorts and a face like someone just told you not to curse anymore.

You unroll your mats.

Cate kisses your cheek and whispers, “Be good.”

You scowl. “I’m not flexible.”

Cate shrugs. “Then stretch, sweetheart.”

The instructor starts class with calm, meditative music and an affirmation. “Let’s begin by setting an intention,” she says gently. “Maybe today, your intention is to soften into discomfort.”

You grumble under your breath, “My intention is to make it out of here alive.”

Cate beams.

It’s downhill from there.

Within ten minutes, you’re pouring sweat.

Not from cardio. From trying to hold a leg in the air while engaging your transverse abs and smiling politely as if your hamstrings aren’t being held hostage.

Cate, meanwhile, is flawless.

Gliding between poses. Artfully pointed toes. Whispering encouragement with just enough smugness.

“You’re doing great,” she murmurs, watching you shake through a slow-motion teaser. “Almost as good as that one time I begged for mercy in the gym locker room.”

You growl. “You said we weren’t gonna talk about that in public.”

“Then hold your plank, sweetheart.”

You collapse.

Cate pouts. “Oh no. Is my big strong gym rat getting bested by a group of wellness influencers and one woman in a visor named Saffron?”

You flip her off without looking.

Cate claps politely. “Mindful expression. Love that.”

By the time class ends, Cate is relaxed and radiant.

You're dripping sweat, red in the face, flat on your back like someone just dropped a barbell on your pride.

Cate leans over her, cheeks flushed, hair gleaming, towel in hand.

“Want your lemon water now?” she offers, sickeningly sweet.

You groan. “I’m gonna need IV hydration.”

Cate kisses your forehead.

“Namaste,” she whispers.

You squint up at her like you’re going to commit a crime.

Cate just giggles and loops her arm through yours as you leave, every step of your walk to the smoothie bar filled with the kind of sore-legged vengeance Cate has waited years to taste.

You shuffle into the smoothie bar like you just got jumped in an alley by an angry pack of yoga moms.

Your tank is clinging to you in weird places. Your hair is sticking up in all directions. Your sports bra band is twisted, your calves are cramping, and you’re pretty sure the instructor winked at Cate while you were in a full-body suffering squat. Your thighs hurt in places you didn’t know had nerve endings.

Cate, on the other hand, looks like she just stepped off the set of a skincare ad.

She’s glowing. She’s glossy. Her ponytail swishes when she walks. Her cheeks are the perfect shade of rose and her legs don’t shake at all when she orders her green goddess superfood smoothie.

You collapse into a bench like a war widow. “I can’t feel my spine.”

Cate doesn’t even look at you. She just sips through her glass straw and goes, “Did you remember to engage your pelvic floor?”

You groan and let your head fall to the table. “I engaged with God and begged for death.”

Cate hums thoughtfully. “That’s funny. You didn’t have any complaints last night when I made you hold your legs at a 90-degree angle.”

A girl at the next table chokes on her açai bowl.

Cate smiles sweetly.

You lift your head just enough to glare. “You’re evil.”

Cate swings her legs, sipping her smoothie with the daintiest little slurp. “No. I’m thorough.”

Back at Cate’s dorm, you faceplant into Cate’s mattress, groaning like the dead.

Cate sits beside you, perched primly on her knees, now in a sweatshirt and tiny shorts with no real intention of being helpful.

“I require medical attention,” you whine into a pillow.

“You require a massage,” Cate says brightly.

“I require morphine.”

Cate climbs onto your hips and cracks her knuckles dramatically. “Lucky for you, I got a C+ in that Wellness Therapy Foundations elective. Now breathe in and try not to die.”

She pours a comically generous amount of lotion onto her palms, rubs them together with a thwap, and slaps her hands down on your back.

You yell into the mattress.

“Oh my God, you’re so tense,” Cate gasps.

“I’m tense because I just planked for thirty minutes while a woman named Saffron told me to ‘bloom into my core.’”

Cate starts kneading your shoulders with all the grace and technique of someone fluffing a throw pillow.

You groan. “You’re just pushing my skin around.”

“I’m redistributing the trauma,” Cate says. “Be grateful.”

She digs her thumbs in—way too hard—makes a pleased little hum, and leans over to kiss between your shoulder blades.

“You’re so dramatic,” she coos.

“You seduced me into Pilates.”

“I avenged myself. There’s a difference.”

You let out a pained moan as Cate works her way down to your lower back—badly, but enthusiastically.

“Okay but,” Cate says after a pause, trailing one finger along the line of your spine, “I was kinda hot doing reverse tabletop though, right?”

You don't answer right away.

Then: “…I got a boner during pigeon pose. So…yeah.”

Cate beams. “Mm…that’s all I needed to hear.”