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His biceps and chest swell.

“You’re worrying for nothing,” I tell him while doing reclined pigeons.

Khaos’s gaze flicks to my pussy, as if he didn’t already get a big enough eyeful.

“I’m an athlete. I push my body’s limits on a regular basis.”

“I’m well fucking aware of the effect you have on a body.”

“You saw me do a handful of herkies. That’s nothing—”

“I wasn’t talking about the effects on your body.”

His?

Khaos’s predicament before his swimming lesson flashes in my mind.

“If it’s so hard being around me, leave.”

He comes over to stand above me. “Do I look hard?”

“You keep eye-fucking me, you will.”

Zero shame, Khaos gazes down at my crotch yet again.

“You’re the one putting yourself on display.”

Cutting off his view, I cross my left leg over my body until my big toe kisses the floor to the right of me. During the process, I also, kind of, kick him.

Khaos presses one of his feet on my knee, mashing it to the floor with a menacing, “Don’t make me break you.”

Like this hurts. Please. This feels heavenly to me. I should ask him to do the other side as well, so I’m balanced.

Instead, I stare into those deep blue eyes, and reply, “Dear brother, I’m unbreakable.”

His scoff is so beyond obnoxious I almost kick him again.

I know what people think of cheerleaders. We’re rail-thin, we’re airheads, we’re skanks, and we just stand on the sidelines in our tiny little skirts shaking our asses. It’s all bullshit. Well, okay, yes, the skirts are short. Most of the time I wish I wasn’t even wearing one because it gets flipped up during my stunts anyway. But that’s the only thing the general public gets right about cheerleaders. We come in all sizes and shapes and colors and genders. Not all teams are co-ed but Littoral’s is. Only flyers need to be a certain weight, but that’s so their bases can hold them using only two hands, or one in some stunts. Just like any other sport, we’re expected to keep our grades up. We should also be fast thinkers and amazing problem solvers. Things go wrong all the time during performances and we have to be able to react instantly. Cheering at games is one small part of what we do. We spend more time on charity events, community gatherings, and competitions, but those don’t get nearly the recognition football does. As far as us sleeping around? All a female has to do is exist and she runs the risk of being thought of, treated as, and/or labeled a slut. The louder a woman’s existence, the higher that risk runs. And cheerleaders? We’re extremely loud. Thankfully, we’re tough, too, both physically and mentally. The entire time we’re putting our bodies through the unthinkable, we’re doing it with smiles on our faces and positivity on our tongues, sore, tired, sweaty, and depending on what time of the month it is, sometimes even bloody. But because that strength is prettied up with short tops, shorter skirts, and sparkles, it gets discounted entirely.

Cheerleaders bend, flip, tuck, jump, twist, kick, shimmy, spin, as well as about a thousand other moves, but what we don’t do is break.

“Try.”

“Try what?”

“Try to break me. Stretch me any way you want. See if I so much as crack.” Even if I did, he would never know it. I’m an award-winning performer. I’ve beamed through pain that’d make grown men weep.

“I already stretched you the way I want.”

“Are you talking about my—” My own snicker cuts me off. He can’t possibly think his fingers… “My boyfriend’s dick is bigger than your—”

“Cock?” Now he’s the one chuckling.

“You didn’t use your cock.”

“Yet.”

A moment, two, then three, passes without either of us saying a word.