Chapter 30

I'm flushed, my heart pounding against the walls of my chest as the memory cascades over me in a torrent of forbidden pleasure. In his office... God, in his office, where anyone could have walked in, he brought me to the edge and pushed me over into an abyss of ecstasy. The way his hands roamed with authority over the terrain of my body, mapping every curve with such expertise, it was like being caught in a riptide, helpless to the pull of the current.
"Fuck..." I whisper to myself, the word barely escaping my lips as if it were a secret too explicit to share with the empty room around me. My breath hitches just thinking about it – how his fingers danced over me, relentless in their pursuit of my undoing. The world had narrowed to his touch, his scent, the heat of his skin against mine.
Heat creeps up my neck, staining my cheeks with the evidence of my arousal. I bite my lip, tasting the tang of anticipation. There, on his couch—the sofa that now holds the memory of our indiscretion like a silent accomplice—my underwear lies abandoned, a damp testament to the intensity of my release.
I stand at the threshold of his office, my gaze locked on the innocuous piece of fabric that seems so out of place in the stark professionalism of his workspace. I should grab it, tuck it away, erase the evidence. But hesitancy claws at me, a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. Part of me, that reckless, thrill-seeking part, wonders if leaving it there is another game? A silent invitation for round two?
"Shit," I mutter, uncertain. Excitement and shyness war within me, each vying for dominance. I want to snatch it back, to hide the tangible proof of what we've done, but another, more primal, side of me thrills at the thought of him finding it, of him holding that scrap of lace and remembering the sounds I made—the sounds he pulled from deep within me.
I take a tentative step forward, my eyes still glued to the couch. Do I dare?
The door to the gym swings open with a purpose, snapping me back to the present and away from the tangled web of my thoughts. My heart jolts, not ready to face another wave of reality just yet. I'm still caught in that vivid haze, the aftershock of pleasure lingering on my skin like a second layer.
"Focus," I whisper under my breath, willing myself to push aside the image of my lace underwear, potentially discarded or already discovered. It's PE class that awaits now, a distraction—or perhaps another form of torment.
As students shuffle around me, their voices melding into a cacophony of teenage indifference, I can't help but glance at the clock. He's late. The new PE coach—the one whose arrival has been the buzz of every locker room conversation—is making his debut today. But even as I stand here, part of me is still back in that office, wondering if he'll keep it as a trophy or dismissively toss it away like yesterday's coffee cup.
The uncertainty is a splinter under my skin. I should have taken it when I had the chance. I chew on the inside of my cheek, my gaze flickering to the door once more.
"Will he be as tough as they say?" a voice next to me murmurs, pulling me out of my reverie. I don't respond, barely registering the question. Because at that moment, he strides in.
The gymnasium doors burst open, the sudden commotion snapping me back to the present. A cacophony of shrill screams and whistles ricochets off the walls, jarring my senses. Instinctively, my head jerks up in response.
He’s here.
The sheer force of his entrance holds me captive—a stark contrast to the lingering vulnerability that's been gnawing at me. My eyes widen as I take in the towering figure commanding the space before us. The air seems to vibrate around him, charged with an intensity that silences the room as quickly as it erupted.
I'm stunned, not only by his unexpected arrival but also by the raw physical presence he exudes. He is undeniably here, undeniably real—so far removed from the echoes of hushed pleasure that had consumed me just moments ago.
"Wow," someone breathes out near me, voicing the collective awe. I can't look away. The pounding in my chest now seems to match the rhythm of his heavy steps thudding against the polished floor as he approaches, the focus of every pair of eyes in the gym.
His stride is purposeful, each step a declaration of his presence. The silence that now blankets the gymnasium is thick, almost tangible, as I drink in the details of our new PE coach. He's like a character from an action-packed graphic novel come to life, with red hair cropped short enough to accentuate the striking widow's peak that cuts a sharp V into his forehead.
He stops at the center of the court—a statue among us—and scans the room. His eyes, the color of smoldering embers, find mine for a fraction of a second, and it feels like someone's twisted a knife in my gut. There's something feral about those eyes, a ferocity that seems at odds with the mundane setting of a high school gym.
His face, angular and square, is chiseled as if from stone, its rough features telling tales of a life lived unapologetically. There's irritability there, etched in the furrows between his brows and the hard set of his jaw—clear signs that he's not here to coddle or coax. He's here to challenge, to command.
The air around him crackles with a silent tension, and I can't help but feel that whatever his story is, it's anything but ordinary. I swallow hard, realizing that this semester of PE won't be just another credit to earn. It will be a trial by fire.
He pivots on the spot, his movements sharp and deliberate, a silent command for attention. The vest he wears clings to him like a second skin, stretched over muscles that are exaggerated in their definition. Every fiber seems etched into being with purpose, with clear lines that speak of discipline and strength. His height nearly touches the 1.9 meter mark, making him tower over most of us.
His shorts do little to hide the powerful build of his legs, muscles rippling with each step as if they're coiled springs, ready to release. As I watch, it feels as though I'm observing some primal force of nature held in human form, an avatar of athleticism.
The dark skin wrapped around his sinewy frame tells a story of its own—years of pushing himself, maybe under open skies that have left their indelible mark upon him. It's a hue that suggests endurance, a physical history written across the canvas of his body.
"Line up!" His voice cuts through the murmurs of the gymnasium, deep and resonant. There's no mistaking the authority in it, or the impatience for anything less than immediate compliance. It's clear from the outset—he expects excellence, demands it with every line of his imposing stature. And as we scramble to obey, I can't shake the feeling that this semester will redefine what I thought I knew about my limits.
The gleam of his skin catches the stark gymnasium light, almost like polished mahogany. It's not just the color—a deep, rich brown—but the sheen to it that makes me think he's spent countless days under a relentless sun. His presence fills the space, the echoes of sunlight seeming to radiate off him, despite the fluorescent bulbs overhead.
"Two laps, warm up!" he commands, and I'm jolted from my thoughts, my legs moving before my mind fully registers the order.
As I round the first bend of the track, I can't help but steal another glance at our new PE coach. Up close, I see the texture of his skin isn't uniform; it's marked by a tapestry of lighter streaks—scars that shimmer slightly, fresh enough to contrast with the darker tones. They crisscross his arms and shoulders in silent testament to recent trials, their origins a mystery that tugs at my curiosity.
I push harder, driven by an inexplicable desire to impress this man who is simultaneously intimidating and fascinating.
Panting, my sneakers squeak against the polished floor as I push past another lap. Sweat trickles down my spine, but it's not just the exertion heating my skin—it's him, our new coach, with his commanding aura that makes the air in the gymnasium crackle.
"Keep it up! Don't slack!" His voice ricochets off the walls, a catalyst spurring us forward. From the corner of my eye, I catch glimpses of him pacing the perimeter, eyes sharp and assessing.
In a fleeting moment, when my stride brings me parallel to where he stands, I see it—the ink on his skin. "So cool!" whispers a voice from behind me, barely audible over the slap of feet against the floor. It's a tattoo... The words echo in my head as I take in the intricate design wrapped around his left forearm.
The dragon depicted there is almost alive, its scales meticulously etched to create an illusion of movement, winding sinuously along the contours of his muscle. Ruby eyes gleam from the ink with a ferocity that matches his own, and flames lick at its jaws, ready to ignite the very air.
My breath hitches, half from the run, half from the startling artistry that adorns his skin—a stark contrast to the severity etched into his features. My legs carry me onward, but my mind lingers on that image: a creature fierce and free, embodying the fire I see burning in the depths of our coach's impatient gaze. He is the same man from my dream. The dragon man I'd jerked off.