Chapter 1

Emma's POV

Three months. I'd been rattling around this empty house for three months since Dad's funeral.

Dad left me three million dollars. The lawyers kept saying I was "set for life."

But I was twenty-eight and felt like I'd stopped breathing.

That's when I made the decision. I needed to feel something. Anything.

I pulled out my phone and searched for personal trainers. The first result was five stars, and the photo made me stop scrolling. Dominic Stone. Reviews said he was "life-changing" and "intense."

I booked a session before I could second-guess myself.

Two days later at exactly 10 AM, the doorbell rang. The second I opened the door, I forgot how to breathe.

He was taller than I'd imagined—at least six-two. His shoulders nearly filled the entire doorframe. His skin was caramel-colored, dark hair cropped short, and those brown eyes looked almost black in the morning light. He wore a fitted black t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination.

"Emma Carter?" His voice was deep with a rasp that made my stomach drop.

"That's me." I managed to sound normal despite my heart hammering.

He extended his hand. "Dominic Stone."

His palm was warm and rough, calloused. The handshake lasted maybe three seconds, but I felt it everywhere. A jolt that shot from my fingertips straight to my core.

It had been so long... God, I couldn't even remember the last time I'd felt anything like this.

"Come in," I said, stepping back. As he walked past me, I caught his scent—something clean and masculine that made me want to lean closer.

He looked around the house approvingly, then turned those dark eyes on me. "So what are your goals?"

I almost laughed. My goals? To feel alive again. To have someone touch me. To stop being so fucking lonely.

"I want to get stronger," I said instead.

The corner of his mouth lifted. "That we can definitely do."

The home gym was on the first floor, and Dominic walked around testing equipment while I tried not to stare at the way his muscles moved under his shirt.

"Let's start with squats," he said. "I need to see your form."

He positioned himself behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. His hands settled lightly on my waist.

"Feet shoulder-width apart," he instructed. "Now I'm going to guide you down."

His hands pressed gently on my hips as I lowered into the squat. His breath ghosted across the back of my neck, and my legs started shaking—but not from the exercise.

"Good," he murmured. "But you need to push your hips back more. Like this."

His hands moved to my hip bones, pulling me back against him. For one heartbeat, my body was flush against his. I felt everything—his solid chest, his thighs, and oh God, something else that made my knees weak.

"Perfect," he said, his voice rougher now. "Hold that position."

I couldn't have moved if I'd wanted to. Three months of numbness evaporated in an instant, replaced by liquid heat pooling low in my belly.

The rest of the workout passed in a blur. Every exercise involved his hands somewhere on my body.

By the time we got to stretching, I was trembling. Not from exhaustion—from want.

"Lie on your back," he said, grabbing a yoga mat.

I did, my pulse racing. He knelt beside me and lifted one of my legs. His hands wrapped around my calf, pushing it toward my chest.

"Breathe," he said, but his own breathing had changed. Faster. Heavier.

He switched to my other leg, but this time his position shifted. He was kneeling between my legs now, pushing my leg up. His face was inches from mine. I could see the pulse jumping in his throat. His eyes locked on mine.

Neither of us moved. The air grew thick, electric.

Then his gaze dropped to my lips and stayed there for three seconds that felt like hours.

He suddenly released my leg and stood up. "Good workout. You did great."

His voice was controlled, professional. But before he turned away, I saw the bulge straining against his shorts.

"I need to use the bathroom," he said, already heading toward the door I'd pointed out earlier.

"Of course." I barely managed to get the words out.

The second he left, I scrambled up and practically ran to the changing room. I locked the door, my hands still shaking. I caught sight of myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, chest heaving.

I couldn't help myself. My hand slid down my stomach and into my shorts. I bit my lip to stay quiet but still let out a sound—half gasp, half moan.

That's when I saw it. A shadow under the door. There was a gap between the door and the frame.

Through that gap, an eye. Dark, burning, watching me.

Shame flooded through me, hot and sharp. But underneath the shame was something else—a thrill that made my skin break out in goosebumps.

I jerked my hand away and pressed my back against the wall, chest heaving. It felt like forever before I heard his footsteps retreat.

When I finally came out, dressed and desperately trying to look composed, he was packing up his bag. He looked up as I entered, and I swear I saw the hint of a smile.

"Same time next week?" he asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"Yes." My voice barely held steady.

I watched him walk down the driveway and get into his gleaming black BMW.

One week. I had to survive one week.

By Tuesday morning, I was a mess. I'd changed clothes four times before settling on a black sports bra that left most of my back exposed.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I knew exactly what I was doing. Playing with fire.

Good. I wanted to burn.

The doorbell rang at exactly 10 AM.

I opened the door and there he was. Same black t-shirt, same dark eyes. But this time, his gaze traveled slowly down my body before meeting my eyes.

"Ready to work out?" he asked.

"Always."

Today felt different. The air was thicker. Charged.

"We're going harder today," he said, tossing his bag into the gym. "Hope you can handle it."

Was that a challenge?

"Try me."

The workout was brutal. Burpees until my legs shook. Planks until my arms gave out.

By the end, I was flat on my back on the yoga mat, chest heaving, unable to move.

Dominic stood over me, not even breathing hard. He reached into his bag and pulled out another bottle of amber oil.

My heart skipped a beat.

"You're too tight," he said. "Let me take care of that."

He set up a massage table, and I lay there trying to control my breathing. When it was ready, he gestured for me to get on.

"Face down."

I climbed on, face down. My sports bra was soaked with sweat. I heard him pour oil into his palms, warming it.

Then his hands were on my shoulders.

Jesus. His hands.

Strong, working deep into my muscles. Professional. Controlled. I started to relax.

He worked his way down my spine, hitting every knot. Lower and lower.

Then I felt his fingers brush the clasp of my sports bra.

"This is in the way," he said quietly. "Is that okay?"

My throat went dry. "Y-yes."

The clasp opened. His hands returned, sliding directly over my skin now, nothing between us. Warm. Slick with oil.

"Breathe, Emma. You're so tense."

Tense? I was about to combust.

His hands moved to my sides, thumbs brushing the edge of my breasts. Just barely. But enough to make me bite my lip hard.

He said nothing. Just kept working, his touches always near where I wanted them but never quite there.

When he reached my lower back, his hands slipped under my waistband. Just fingertips at first, working the muscles there.

"You hold a lot of tension here," he said, his voice lower now.

His hands went deeper, fingers sliding over the curve of my ass. I clenched my thighs together, trying to stop the ache building between my legs.

"Relax," he whispered, but his breathing had changed. Heavier.

"Turn over," he said suddenly.

My eyes flew open. "What?"

"On your back. Your hip flexors need work."

I slowly turned over, clutching a towel to my chest. But the moment I flipped, the towel slipped. My breasts were bare, gleaming with oil.

His eyes locked on them. For three heartbeats, he just stared.

Then he poured oil directly onto my collarbone. It ran down the curve of my breasts. He watched it trail down.

"Your chest," he said, voice rough. "Your pectorals are tight."

His palms covered my breasts.

Not massage. Possession.

I gasped, arching off the table. His hands were burning, his touch firm, thumbs circling until I couldn't breathe.

I grabbed his wrists. Our eyes met.

The only sound in the room was our ragged breathing.

He was leaning over me now, his face inches from mine. I could see the pulse hammering in his throat. His gaze dropped to my lips.

I lifted my head, lips parting.

He was going to kiss me.