The Masked Campus Belle

The storage room was silent except for my shaky breaths as Coach Marcus forced my legs apart, helping me stretch for splits. His hands burned against my inner thighs, pushing relentlessly—farther, harder—until my muscles screamed.

"Be good," he murmured, his voice rough. "You want to pass tomorrow's exam, don't you?"

A smirk curled his lips when he felt me tremble. His grip tightened, those calloused fingers inching higher, teasing the edge of my leotard—

God, yes.

My name is Evelyn Roscente, a freshman dance major.

At eighteen, I've got the kind of body that makes wives clutch their husbands tighter when I walk by—all curves, a waist you could circle with your hands, and a face that somehow balances innocence with sin. My high school dance teacher once told me no man could resist me.

She wasn't wrong.

My porcelain skin (thanks, Mom) and my habit of wearing plunging necklines don't help. Neither does the way I blush and giggle when men "accidentally" graze my ass or let their hands linger too close to my chest.

Behind my back, they call me a bimbo.

What they don't know?

I let them touch me.

I crave it.

It started with a video—some illicit clip I stumbled onto as a teen. The woman on screen arched under a man's touch, gasping, gripping the sheets like she'd die if he stopped.

It feels so good.

I curled under my blankets, thighs pressed tight, desperate to feel what she felt.

But nothing. Just emptiness.

Until one day in the park, a stranger whistled at me. As he passed, his hand clamped down on my ass—hard.

Shame. Thrill. Fire.

I stood frozen, pulse roaring in my ears.

That. That was what she'd felt.

And I was addicted.

In college, I got bolder, testing what kind of touch—what kind of men—could give me that rush.

Turns out? Scrawny college boys? Pathetic.

Then he showed up.

Marcus Lowell. Our new gym teacher.

Dressed in gray athletic gear, every muscle carved like he was sculpted by some god with a dirty mind. And that bulge—

No. That wasn't normal.

Most girls looked away, flustered.

I licked my lips.

"I'm Marcus Lowell," he announced, voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Your new gym instructor. I run a tight ship—keep up or drop out."

The class groaned.

I was too busy memorizing the way his biceps flexed to care.

"First rule," he barked. "No skirts in my class."

Every head swiveled toward me.

I glanced down at my barely-there skirt. "But the last teacher didn't—"

Marcus's gaze dragged up my legs, slow, deliberate, before he turned away sharply. "Fifty push-ups. The rest of you—run laps."

Pride burned through me at the way his eyes lingered.

With an exaggerated sigh, I dropped to the floor.

Five push-ups in, my arms gave out.