“Fuck... just like that...” A gasp. “Yes, Daddy... please...”
The wet slick of his hand working himself is unmistakable. His breathing grows ragged, punctuated by those little whimpers he makes when he’s close.
I listen again. Then a third time. A fourth.
My dick strains against my zipper, and I adjust myself roughly, cursing under my breath. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man running a business, not some horny teenager who can’t control himself.
I toss the phone onto my desk and stand up, pacing the length of my office. I’ve got fighters to train. Contracts to review. A rival to crush. I don’t have time for?—
My phone chimes again.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, snatching it up.
The image stops my breath: Theo sprawled across silk sheets, wearing red lace panties that barely contain him. His cock—hardand flushed—pokes out from the waistband, and there’s cum splattered across his stomach and chest. His lips are parted, eyes heavy-lidded, looking straight into the camera like he can see me through the screen.
I drop into my chair, my own cock throbbing painfully. In twenty minutes, I’m supposed to be on the mats. In twenty minutes, I’m supposed to be focused on technique and form and turning men into champions.
Instead, I’m staring at a photo of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, wearing women’s underwear and covered in his own release, knowing I’m the reason he came.
16
THEO
I’m not stalking him. At least that’s what I tell myself as I sit in my Audi across from Victor’s fight club, the engine off and a cooling coffee between my fingers. The bitter liquid has gone lukewarm, but I sip it anyway, eyes never leaving the building’s entrance.
This is... pathetic. I don’t do this. I don’t pine. I don’t wait. I’ve always been the one pursued, not the pursuer.
Yet here I am.
A fighter exits—not Victor, just some kid with taped hands and a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He laughs at something on his phone, oblivious to my scrutiny. The glass door swings shut behind him.
I imagine Victor inside—all raw power and focus. Muscles strain as he pushes his fighters past their limits. That deep voice barking commands. Those hands adjusting someone’s stance with surprising gentleness.
How is it possible to want someone this much? It’s fucking absurd. I have people lined up around the block for a chance at my bed. Beautiful people. Important people. People who don’t have existential crises after making me come.
I take another sip, grimacing at both the cold coffee and my own sentimentality. There’s something about watching him in his element—that brutal grace, the absolute confidence—that makes my chest ache in ways I’d never admit aloud.
“Embarrassing,” I mutter to my reflection in the rearview mirror.
But I don’t start the car. Don’t pull away. Instead, I keep watching the door, knowing I’ve crossed some invisible line from interest to obsession. I’m hooked on him—the contradiction of him. The tenderness buried beneath all that aggression. The vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.
I never expected Victor Kaine to be more than a conquest. A challenge. Another supposedly straight man to add to my collection of experiences.
Now I’m sitting outside his gym like a lovesick teenager, just hoping for a glimpse.
I take a deep breath and send the text.
“Come outside for five minutes.”
The response comes faster than I expected.
“I’m working.”
Predictable. I smile at my phone, typing back:
“I know. Come outside anyway.”
The message shows as read, but there’s no immediate reply. I watch the seconds tick by on my dashboard clock. One minute. Two. Three. My confidence wavers slightly, but I keep my eyes fixed on the entrance. Four minutes in, the door swings open.
