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Both bottles of wine are long gone, alongside the flask Betty brought. We’ve also almost polished off a bottle of whisky she somehow came back from the toilet with. Where she got it from, I don’t know. I didn’t ask nor complain when she passed it between the three of us.
It’s not even a nice drink, but it went down easily enough.
“I should probably get you two home.” Noah sighs, flicking his gaze between Betty and me. Since he has classes early, he stopped drinking over an hour ago.
He’s super responsible like that.
Unlike Betty and me.
She’s more awake than I am, at least; her eyes are glassy, and her words slur when she tries to tell him no. “Come on.”
As I stand, something tingles in the back of my mind, telling me to turn around. Slowly, I turn my head, moving my gaze over the room until I’m facing the raised platform in the centre.
Dressed in only black sweatpants, Theodore stands there, staring down at me. Without conscious thought, I drop back down into my seat, unable to walk away.
There’s something about him that commands my attention.
Whether it’s the way his lips lift into a smirk at the sight of me, or the darkening of his green eyes when they lock on mine.
Or maybe it’s the way the black and grey tattoos on his chest ripple along his muscles when he steps forward.
It could even be his abs.
All fucking six that beg me to run my fingers over them.
Whatever it is, I’m trapped.
He stays watching me for a long minute, his eyes tracking over every inch of me. When his mouth lifts higher, his smirk turning into a slow grin, a stupid dimple forms on one cheek.
Beam me up, Scotty, because I’m fucked.
He has the face of a fucking angel.
A beautiful, heavenly angel.
It’s a shame his heart and soul are black.
I haven’t watched a single fight tonight, unable to bear the true depravity of everything that has gone on in that ring; yet, when the bell sounds and he spins to face his opponent, I can’t look away.
Not when his fist strikes out, or when he takes a kick to the stomach. Not even when he gets the other guy to the ground and starts pummelling him, hit after hit, after hit.
In that ring, he looks at ease.
At home.
It’s truly fucking magnificent.
“So, we’re not leaving, then?” Noah asks, taking his seat again. He looks at me, waiting for my answer, but I don’t speak. I’m not even sure I can.
Theodore grabs a fistful of brown hair, lifting the other guy’s face towards him. He says something, but his words are too quiet and the room too loud for me to make anything out.
Whatever words he spoke has his opponent’s eyes widening in fear before his head is smashed into the leather mat. Not once, not twice, but three times until his body slumps to the floor; lifeless.
When Theodore stands, his back to the crowd, I clench my thighs, ignoring the wetness pooling in my underwear.
While I can admit that watching a boxing fight or two is hot, this is something else. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so turned on; and when he turns again, sending me a wink, I think I stop breathing.
There’s something feral in his expression, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make him even more attractive.
