"Travel stiffens the fascia," my stepfather murmured, his clinical voice steady as his thumb circled my center. "You know the protocol." While my mother laughed with the receptionist at the front desk, my stepdad—my Olympic swim coach—had me pressed against a marble pillar in the hotel lobby, conducting a private "swimming evaluation." Next thing I knew, I was facing the wall, my hands braced against cool stone, while he unzipped my travel jacket. “Sacroiliac rotation is off.” His thumb traced the cleft of my ass through my yoga pants, pressing deep. “Spread your feet, Elena. You know the drill.” I widened my stance. My pulse was already in my ears. “This is the pelvic-tilt evaluation.” His left hand anchored my hip while his right slid between my thighs from behind, cupping me through the thin fabric. Two fingers found the edge of my shorts and pressed. "Adductor tension is high," Marcus whispered, his thumb finding the heat between my thighs. “We’ll need to release that.” Mom’s laugh echoed from the front desk. “Oh, the view from the suite sounds divine!” Marcus didn’t pause. His fingers slipped under my waistband, parting me, sliding through wetness. I bit my lip hard enough to taste iron. “Good.” He withdrew, and I heard the wet sound of his tongue as he brought his fingers to his mouth. “Proper hydration response. Electrolytes are balanced.” He turned me around, still licking his thumb, his eyes dropping to watch my chest heave under my tank top. “You’re cleared for the afternoon session. We’ll address the tightness in the sauna later.” As Marcus stepped away, my stepbrother, Derek, stepped forward, his green eyes burning with a flat, dark hunger. “Room 426.” He gripped my jaw and kissed me hard. “My turn tonight.” His voice was quiet, scraped raw. “Coach isn’t the only one with a session plan.” He walked toward the elevators without looking back. I stood there, trembling, my yoga pants still damp from Marcus’s fingers, Derek’s saliva cooling on my lips.
