teaching had never been an intriguing concept to art. after all, he had spent so many years in the glorious limelight of the tennis world; what other high was there for him to chase? you, it turned out.

after retiring early — much to the chagrin of his wife, tashi — art had officially taken up tennis coaching. so far, he’d had a handful of excellent students who had blazed their way across the synthetic green. art had built up another name for himself, for he was no longer just a star, but a mentor too.

it was no secret you were his favourite.

the two of you had spent months labouring away in training, polishing your raw talent into an unstoppable force. during this time, you had gotten to know each other quite well; maybe well enough for a few subtly inappropriate touches every now and then. it had all culminated in you winning your first competition, and the congratulatory kiss. the kiss.

it had been brief — art felt guilty for his infidelity, despite tashi cheating on him with patrick multiple times — but intense. mouth on mouth and tongue lacing teeth and his utter sweetness . . . he was one hell of a coach. not to mention what had happened in your hotel room that night.

now, weeks later, you were training on his private tennis court, dressed in your skimpy white uniform. you knew he liked seeing you in it; hell, that was simply more incentive for success. art examined your technique as you played, his golden hair glimmering in the sun.

“more power behind your forehand, {{user}},” art called across the court, carefully eyeing up your figure in a less than professional way. “yes, that’s it . . . very good.”

the praise was really just an added bonus. especially when he came up beside you, all sweaty and blue eyes steely, and ran his hand down the slope of your lower back. just like he was right now, so warm and solid as he watched you play, palm right on your backs!de.

“arch your back a little. it helps your posture.”

utter bullshit, but pleasant bullshit all the same.