There comes a moment when sitting on the sidelines stops being professional restraint and starts being straight-up cowardice.
Congratulations, Ford. You've officially arrived.
After practice, I bypass the gym office completely. Get in my car, drive across town like a man possessed, don't stop until I'm standing outside her apartment with my fist raised and my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.
One knock. Nothing.
Two knocks, harder. Still nothing.
But she's home—I can hear music bleeding through the door. Low, heavy, the kind of soundtrack that accompanies emotional destruction.
Third knock. "Sienna."
Dead silence.
Door opens exactly one inch. She peeks out, and the second our eyes lock, tries to slam it shut. I catch her wrist before she can disappear on me again.
"Sienna, please."
She freezes. Doesn't invite me in, doesn't shut the door. Classic Sienna—stuck between fight and flight.
"Just let me talk."
Heavy sigh. Steps back. I walk in before she can reconsider because I know this girl well enough to recognize when she's about to bolt.
Her apartment's dim, quiet, smells like citrus shampoo and the aftermath of whatever breakdown she's been having.
She's drowning in an oversized hoodie, hair scraped back in a messy bun, face bare. Eyes red and swollen like she's been crying until her body ran out of tears.
Arms crossed, defensive posture locked and loaded. "You shouldn't be here."
"Don't give a fuck."
"That's not how this works, Ford."
"Think I care about protocol after watching him tear you apart today?"
Her expression hardens. Turns away because apparently eye contact is too much right now.
"You were supposed to stay out of it."
"Tried that," I say, moving closer. "Tried being professional, respecting your choices. But watching you shrink back into that scared little robot, watching you walk off the floor like someone ripped your soul out—can't ignore that."
She stays silent.
I keep pushing. "You're limping again. Taping injuries like they're inconveniences. Smiling on command. You're erasing yourself, Sienna."
Voice drops to barely audible. "It's not your choice to make."
"It is when I'm in love with you."
That gets her attention. Stops her cold. I watch her blink rapidly, trying to process what I just admitted.
Too late. Cat's out of the bag now.
"You fought too hard to become your own person. To compete because you wanted to, not because someone terrorized you into compliance. Can't let him delete all that progress."
She scoffs, but there's no real fight in it. "It's not that simple."
"Never said it was. But you escaped once before."
She paces to the kitchen, gripping the counter like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
"You don't understand. George has connections, influence. If I cause problems, I lose everything—Paris, endorsements, my entire future. Game over."
I follow her. "So your solution is surrendering? Letting him destroy you again?"
She whips around. "I'm surviving, okay? That routine was technically perfect. Landed everything clean even though I could barely breathe. Nobody cares if I fall apart afterward as long as I don't fall during."
I really look at her then. Hands trembling against that counter, whole body braced for impact. This isn't anger—it's pure terror.
She's trapped in the same psychological cage, convinced escape is impossible.
Step closer, invading her space. "I remember the girl who kissed me like she was starving for something real. Who stayed late perfecting routines because she loved the work. Who laughed out loud when she nailed difficult passes. That's the version I'm fighting for."
Her eyes fill up, finally meets my gaze.
“I don’t want to lose this,” she whispered. “But if I fight back, I might lose everything.”
“You won’t lose me,” I said.
She stared like she still didn’t trust the math. But then her shoulders dropped, her hands unclenched.
She crossed the space fast, grabbed my shirt and dragged me down to her mouth, kissing me like she was done pretending.
I kissed her back, rougher. It wasn’t slow, it wasn’t sweet. It was angry, starved, and raw. Weeks of biting it back now breaking loose.
I grab her like I’m drowning and she’s the only air left in the world.
My mouth crashes into hers—no finesse, no patience—just raw heat and desperation. Her fingers twist into my shirt, then my hair, pulling me closer like she’s just as fucking lost as I am.
We stumble blindly toward the bed, bumping into walls, dragging each other forward with whispered promises that none of this will make sense tomorrow—but tonight isn’t about logic.
Tonight is about need.
“I need you,” she breathes against my lips, voice cracking. “I don’t want to be scared tonight. I just want to feel safe.”
Her words gut me. They strip every last bit of self-control I’ve been clinging to like armor. The storm inside me quiets—for the first time in months—as I look down at her, really look.
And then I lose it.
I grab the hem of her hoodie and yank it up over her head, tossing it aside. She’s left in nothing but a long, loose sleep shirt—and fuck me, there’s nothing underneath.
No bra. No panties. Just bare skin and the scent of her arousal already thick in the air.
My gaze drops—and everything in me goes dark.
“You’re not wearing panties,” I mutter, my voice barely more than a growl.
She shakes her head slowly, cheeks flushed, breath catching.
“Fuck,” I hiss. That one word fires straight down my spine and settles in my cock, already rock hard and straining against my sweats.
I move to touch her, but she stops me—just a palm flat to my chest. I freeze, confused, trying to read her expression.
“Let me,” she whispers.
And when she drops to her knees, my breath catches and the world seems to tilt.
I didn’t stop her, I don’t even blink when her hands slide to my waistband and tug my sweats down. My cock springs free, thick, flushed, heavy with need, and her eyes widen with something between awe and hunger.
“Jesus, Sienna,” I breathe.
She wraps her hand around the base and strokes me once, slow, like she’s testing the weight of it. My hips twitch. My jaw locks tight when her warm, wet mouth wraps around me and slides down slowly.
Fuck.
My hand flies to her hair, fingers tangling as I try not to thrust into her throat. She takes me deep, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, lips sealing around every inch she can manage. I hiss through my teeth as she works me harder, wetter, faster.
Her eyes stay on mine the whole time.
“Fuck, Sienna. Your mouth—” I groan, feeling my control unraveling with every flick of her tongue. My thighs tremble, the muscles coiled tight, and I’m seconds from coming in her mouth like a goddamn animal.
I yank her up. My lips crash into hers, kissing her filthy and deep, tasting myself on her tongue. I lift her in one smooth motion and throw her down onto the bed like I’ve waited my whole life to wreck her.
“I need to be inside you,” I snarl.
“Then do it,” she gasps, legs already spreading for me.
I line up and thrust in, slow, deep, inch by thick inch, and she cries out, arching under me, fingers clawing at the sheets.
Her body grips me like a vice, tight, wet, perfect. Each of my thrust is hard and deep, rocking her against the bed, her fingers clawing at the sheets like she’s trying to survive me.
“You take me so fucking good,” I growl, voice ragged as I pound into her, watching the way her body arches to meet me, begging for more without saying a word.
She gasps—“Faster, Ford, please”—and fuck if that doesn’t light me up from the inside out. I give her everything. No holding back.
Then I grab her, flip her onto her stomach in one fluid motion, and shove back in from behind, driving so deep she chokes on a scream.
Her face buries into the mattress, her back curves like a bow, and I swear I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than her completely undone, wrecked, trembling beneath me.
I fist a hand in her hair and yank gently, enough to make her whimper, while the other digs into her ass, bruising her, grounding me. I’m everywhere inside her—owning her, claiming her.
Her body starts to tremble. Sienna sobs my name. She’s close, I can feel it in the way she clenches, the way she writhes, trying to take more.
“Don’t stop, please, Ford— I’m close—”
I don’t. I won’t.
I lift her off the bed, one arm under her knees, the other wrapping around her back, and fuck her like that—standing, holding her, her entire body at my mercy as I drive into her deeper, rougher, her head falling back against my shoulder, lips parted in a silent cry.
“I’m gonna come,” she whispers, breath hitching, broken.
“Do it,” I snarl into her ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you lose it.”
She explodes in my arms, pussy pulsing around me, body shaking like she’s being torn apart by pleasure.
The moment she clamps down, I lose it—slamming in deep one last time and spilling inside her with a roar, hips jerking as I empty every drop.
We collapse onto the bed, tangled limbs, sweat-slicked skin, hearts pounding in sync. Her face is pressed to my chest, her breath warm against my skin.
I hold her tighter. Because she’s not just mine at this moment.
She’s only mine.