After the last class clears and the lobby lights die, Quinn Reyes stays to lock up Groundwork, the private MMA gym she manages at night. Jax Brennan, the owner, is still on the mats—shirtless, sweating, working the heavy bag like the empty floor belongs only to him. What starts as a clinch drill turns into hands that don't let go, mouths that don't stop, and a risk neither of them walks away from when the security beam sweeps the lot.
She tells herself it's one night. He doesn't ask her to pretend. On the vinyl, against the cage, over the office desk, he takes her mouth, her cunt, her ass, filling her while the city keeps its hours outside the locked doors. Every time she comes back. Every time he is waiting with his hands already open. The pattern holds because both of them want it to hold—slow on the mats, fast against the post, deep enough that she feels him the next day under her clothes.
