On My Knees - J. Kenner Page 0,85

Sutter was thorough in his instructions, and it’s easy to find the door to his office, and once I’ve punched in the code and entered, I pull the door shut and lock it. The office is bare bones but neat, with what looks like an army surplus desk, a couple of filing cabinets, and lots of awards and certificates framed on the wall in plain black document frames that you can buy at any drugstore.

The gym is as simple as the office. It is mostly mats and free weights. Nothing like the gym at work with row after row of weight and cardio machines. Here, there is a treadmill for cardio, and that’s about it. There’s also a boxing ring, slightly raised and padded, and I imagine that’s some pretty serious cardio, too.

But it’s the far left corner that interests me as I stand in the doorway between this main area and the office. Because that is where Jackson is, shirtless and in loose gym shorts. His back gleams with sweat, and he is pounding away at a punching bag.

I don’t know how long I watch him—a minute, an hour, a year?—but finally he seems to run out of steam. He turns away, breathing hard, and as I step backward into the shadows, I see that the ferocity in his punches isn’t reflected on his face. Instead, he looks tired and a little lost. And that, I think, is because of me.

He walks to the locker room, and once he has disappeared inside, I step out of my hiding place. I follow him, slowly entering the plain white room that smells of soap and antiseptic. I see rows of lockers, and then off to the left there is a line of shower stalls with thin plastic curtains. Jackson is in one. He thinks he’s alone, and the curtain isn’t closed. He is facing the tiled wall, letting the water pound on him. After a moment, he leans forward and puts his hands on the tile, his head down, his posture full of defeat.

No.

I toe off my canvas shoes, then peel off my jeans and underwear. I leave them on the floor, then pull off and discard my shirt and bra as well, so that by the time I have reached the shower, I have left a Hansel-and-Gretel-style trail of clothes across this tidy, mopped floor.

I pause for a moment behind him, afraid that this is a mistake. But even if it is, I’m going forward. Whatever the consequences, I have to talk to him. I have to apologize. And I have to know the story; I have to know about Ronnie.

I enter the stall, then slide my arms around his waist.

He freezes at first, and I have a split second to think that perhaps sneaking up on a naked man from behind in a shower stall is a very bad idea.

Then his body relaxes. He says nothing, but turns in my arms. His eyes meet mine before I glance down and see his cock go hard, as if matching the intensity of his expression.

His gaze slides over me, and I start to speak, but he shakes his head. Just the slightest movement, but it silences me. Then he pushes me back so that my now-heated skin is pressed against the tile. There is heat in his eyes. Hunger. And in one fast, almost violent movement, he claims my mouth, his hands on the tile on either side of me.

We touch nowhere except our lips, and yet I feel him throughout my entire body. My skin tingles. My cunt throbs. My breasts seem to beg for him to touch me, rough and wild. To take and to claim and to—

He spins me around so that now I am facing the shower stall, and he pulls my hips toward him, holding on to me so that I don’t slip. Again, he says nothing, but he puts my hands on the tile, so that now I am bent forward at the waist, and he is behind me. He strokes his hands over my back, then over my ass, then he urges my legs apart and slides his hand between them. I am completely wet, and desperately aroused. I want him to use me. I want him to fuck me.

And then he is over me, one hand cupping a breast as the other guides his cock to my core. When he’s positioned, he doesn’t hold back, just cups my breasts and slams hard into