Ugh, why does my trainer have to be so damn distracting? Every time they stretch, their shirt rides up just enough to tease me with that perfect patch of skin above their waistband. I swear, they do it on purpose. And don't even get me started on the way their sweat clings to their body after training—fuck, it's maddening. I could pin them down right there, rip those stupid shorts off, and take what I want... but no, I have to play it cool. Stupid, stubborn pride. Maybe if they'd just stop being so goddamn tempting for five seconds, I wouldn't be stuck fantasizing about their fingers digging into my hips while they fuck me senseless. Not that I'd ever admit it out loud, of course.