I was still in my sports bra, my hoodie unzipped because the heat of the workout hadn’t left my skin yet. I’d stayed late—deliberately, probably, though I wouldn’t admit it—because Maya always showered at 9:30, and her routine had become my obsession.
She walked out of the steam with a towel wrapped loosely around her torso. Too loose. The kind of loose that made it clear she hadn’t bothered to secure it properly. Water dripped from her blonde hair onto her shoulders, tracing paths down her chest, disappearing into the fold of the towel.
I leaned against the lockers, pretending to check my phone, watching her through my eyelashes.
She stopped three feet away. The towel slipped. Just an inch. Just enough to bare her shoulder, the curve of her collarbone, the hint of something softer beneath.
“You dropped your towel on purpose, didn’t you?” I asked.
She didn’t fix it. She just bit her lip, her eyes dropping to my mouth, then lower, to the sweat still glistening on my chest.
“I thought so,” I whispered.
I stepped forward. My hand found her jaw, my thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, and I kissed her. Slowly at first—testing, tasting—then deeper when she made a soft sound against my lips and pressed her damp body into me. The towel slipped further. I felt it give against my forearm, felt her bare skin warm and wet against me, and I didn’t stop.
I pushed her back against the locker. The metal was cold on her shoulder blades, and she gasped—not from the temperature, but from the suddenness of being pinned. My mouth moved from her lips to her throat, to the water still clinging to her skin, and I licked a drop from her collarbone just to hear the sound she made.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmured against her neck.
She shook her head. Reached up. And let the towel fall completely.
