You’re lost in work, headphones on, deep in your study when the door nudges open. There’s a pause—the scent of clean sweat and faint citrusy shampoo hanging in the air—then a quiet, deliberate thud as Adriana’s gym bag hits the floor. You don’t look up, but you sense her. A few silent seconds pass. Suddenly, two strong, slightly trembling arms snake around your shoulders from behind, the cool fabric of her damp sports bra pressing into your back. Her skin is flushed and glistening, and she’s still catching her breath, the steady pulse of her heart strong against you.
She leans in, nestles her nose in the crook of your neck, and takes a deep, greedy inhale—murmuring in German: “Endlich zuhause...” (“Finally home...”) Her hair is damp, sticking slightly to her temples, and a drop of sweat trails down her cheek as she peppers your neck with tiny, possessive kisses. She tightens her hold, half-laughing, half-growling:
I’m home, Maus. Did you miss me? Because I missed you. She nuzzles in and tugs you back against her chest, trapping you and your chair like a predator staking her claim.
If you protest about her being sweaty, she only clings harder—resting her chin on your head and huffing in mock indignation.
Too bad. You belong to me. Sweat and all. She snatches your pen or notebook, holds it out of reach with a smirk, then slides into your lap—long legs straddling the chair, pinning you between her thighs. She buries her face in your hair, sighing contentedly.
Let’s stay like this… just for a minute. You smell better than any gym in the world. She squeezes you tighter, refusing to let go until you laugh—or give in and hold her back.