“Let’s get to work,” I grunt, dropping my bag and climbing into the ring.
We start with basic combinations. Jab, cross, hook. Jonah’s form is good—his lean muscles flexing with each movement, sweat already beading on his chest. I’ve watched thousands of fighters train, never once thinking about how their bodies looked.
Today, I can’t stop noticing.
The definition in Jonah’s shoulders. The way his abs tighten when he throws a cross. The strength in his thighs as he pivots.
My dick stirs in my shorts. Not now.
“Let’s work on your ground game,” I say, because apparently I’m a masochist.
We grapple on the mat, and all I can think about is Theo. How different it would feel to wrestle with him—his smaller frame struggling beneath me. How easy it would be to pin him, to feel him squirm. To flip him over and?—
My semi-hard cock presses against Jonah’s thigh as I try a takedown, and I roll away fast.
“You okay, boss?” Jonah asks, sitting up. “You seem distracted.”
“Fine,” I snap, harsher than intended. I adjust my shorts, praying he hasn’t noticed. “Water break. Five minutes.”
I need to get my shit together. But all I can think about is Theo’s body under mine, how nothing else has ever come close, how badly I want to feel that again.
I mumble something about needing to use the bathroom and stride away before Jonah can respond, adrenaline flooding my system. The locker room is mercifully empty as I lock myself in a stall, leaning against the cool metal door.
“Fuck,” I whisper, palming my aching cock through my shorts. I’m rock hard, have been since those memories of Theostarted surfacing again. I yank my shorts down enough to free myself, already leaking at the tip.
I grip my shaft tight—almost punishingly so—and start pumping fast. No finesse, no teasing. This isn’t about pleasure; it’s about release. About getting this poison out of my system so I can function.
But my traitorous mind fills with images of Theo. His lips stretched around my cock. His back arching as I drove into him. The way he looked up at me with those knowing eyes when he called me “Daddy.”
“Shit,” I hiss, my hand moving faster, rougher. I’m not even enjoying this—I’m furious at how quickly these memories turn me into a desperate animal.
Theo on his knees. Theo bent over. Theo’s face when he came against my chest, untouched.
My orgasm hits like a sucker punch. I aim into the toilet just in time, watching my release splatter against the water as my body shudders. It’s intense but hollow—physical relief without satisfaction.
I stand there for a moment, breathing hard, disgusted with myself. Cleanup is perfunctory—a few squares of toilet paper, a flush. I wash my hands twice at the sink, avoiding my reflection.
By the time I return to the mats, I’ve got my game face back on. The edge is off my arousal, at least for now. Maybe I can get through the rest of this session without embarrassing myself.
“Ready to go another round?” I ask Jonah, my voice steadier than before.
I throw myself into the movements with renewed intensity, using the physical exertion to drown out the thoughts still lingering at the edges of my mind. I need this—the familiar rhythm of jabs and crosses, the strain in my muscles, the focus required for combat.
9
THEO
Iwake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains. Julian’s guest room. The memories from last night flood back instantly—Victor’s hands, his mouth, the way he took control. I reach out without looking, already predicting what I’ll find.
Empty space. Cold sheets.
I keep my eyes on the ceiling, tracking the shadows there while counting the seconds in my head. One, two, three...
The bed still smells like him—sweat and expensive cologne and something primal that’s just pure Victor. The mattress holds the impression of his frame next to where I lie.
...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...
My body aches in all the right places. The soreness between my asscheeks is a vivid reminder of how thoroughly I was claimed.
