You already did. And it was the best night of your life.
My stomach drops because he’s right. It was. Nothing I’ve experienced before or since has come close to what happened between us. My cock stiffens painfully against my zipper just thinking about his body under mine, the sounds he made when I pushed inside him.
I type, fingers moving against my better judgment.
It was. And my cock is hard right now thinking about it. But I can’t do this. I can’t be this.
I add:
Stop texting me. Please.
The reply comes faster than I expected.
I can’t. Never had dick that good before. I want more. Need more.
I groan, dropping my head back to stare at the ceiling lights. I’m royally screwed. Everything I’ve built, everything I am—it all feels like it’s balancing on the edge of a knife. One wrong move and it all comes crashing down.
I sit with our conversation thread glowing on the screen, the evidence of my weakness.
13
THEO
I’ve never been particularly patient. The problem with patience is that it assumes time is neutral—that waiting costs nothing. But desire has a half-life, and I can feel Victor’s resolve decaying with each passing day.
So I escalate.
Getting Victor’s training schedule wasn’t particularly difficult. People talk when you own nightclubs, and information is just another currency in Ravenwood. I don’t examine too closely which palms were greased or which favors were called in. The result is what matters: a meticulous breakdown of Victor Kaine’s weekly routine, printed on a sheet of paper I’ve memorized and then burned.
Monday morning finds me at Grind House, a coffee shop two doors down from Kaine’s Fight Club. I’ve never set foot in the place before, but today I’ve decided they make the best espresso in Ravenwood. I settle at a window table with my laptop, looking appropriately busy with club financials while positioning myself with a clear view of the gym entrance.
Wednesday afternoon, I’m overseeing the delivery of Eclipse’s new sound system, timing it perfectly so the truck blocks half of Victor’s private parking space. When he pulls up inthat ridiculous muscle car of his, I’m leaning against the loading bay door, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched on my nose, directing the installation crew with casual authority.
On Friday evening, I take a new running route that passes the warehouse just as his fighters arrive for their weekly underground matches. I’m shirtless despite the cool evening air, sweat glistening across my chest and back, earbuds in and seemingly lost in my own world.
Each time, I give him exactly three seconds of eye contact. Just enough for that smile—the one that says I know exactly what you look like when you lose control—before returning to whatever I was doing. Never approaching. Never acknowledging the tension crackling between us.
Today marks the sixth day of my campaign. I’m back at Grind House, this time with a stack of vinyl records I’m sorting through for an upcoming set. The bell above the door chimes, and I don’t need to look up to know it’s him. I feel him immediately—that shift in the air, the weight of his attention settling on me like a hand at the back of my neck.
I reach for a record. Count to three. Look up.
His expression tells me everything. He’s done waiting.
“Outside,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. “Now.”
I follow him out the side door and into the narrow alley, and then the brick is at my back before I’ve fully registered moving.
The rough wall scrapes against my back, unforgiving as Victor’s mouth claims mine. His body presses me harder into the surface, all that coiled restraint finally snapping like I knew it would. His hands find my wrists, pinning them above my head as he deepens the kiss.
I moan into his mouth, not bothering to hide how much I want this—want him. He tastes like coffee and desperation, and his stubble burns against my skin in the most delicious way.
“Fuck,” he growls against my mouth, pulling back just enough to look at me. His pupils are blown wide, breath coming in short bursts. “You planned this.”
“I planned to get coffee,” I reply, letting my tongue dart out to wet my lips. His eyes track the movement hungrily. “Everything else is just... happy coincidence.”
Victor shifts, pressing his thigh between my legs, and I can’t help but roll my hips against the pressure. His grip on my wrists tightens.
“Six days,” he says, voice rough. “You’ve been everywhere I look for six fucking days.”
