Riley’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight, surprise written clearly across his face. I watch him process it, wait for disgust or judgment or awkward professionalism, but his expression quickly settles into something almost neutral. Almost, but not quite—there’s a flush high on his cheekbones that wasn’t there before.
“It’s a normal physiological response,” he says, voice even. “Nothing to be concerned about.”
But it doesn’t feel normal. It feels like something fundamental has shifted inside me, and I have no idea how to shift it back.
I close my eyes, unable to look at him anymore. My face burns with embarrassment, but my cock doesn’t seem to care. If anything, the humiliation makes it harder. Go figure.
Riley starts working on my front shoulders, his touch just as professional as before. For a while, everything is normal again, and I start to breathe easier. Maybe we can just pretend this isn’t happening. Maybe it will go away if I focus on the therapy and not on how his hands feel on my skin.
But then he moves to massage my pecs, and whatever control I had slips away. My nipples are already hard, sensitive, and when his thumb brushes against one, pleasure zings down my spine like an electric shock.
“Fuck,” I hiss, eyes flying open.
Riley’s watching me, eyes darker than they were before. He doesn’t apologize for the contact. Instead, he does it again, deliberately this time, pressing his thumb against my nipple with firm pressure.
I bite my lip to keep from making another sound, but it doesn’t work. A groan escapes me as he reaches with his other hand to focus on my other nipple, working them both at the same time. This can’t be medical. This isn’t how doctors touch patients. But I can’t bring myself to stop him.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself.
My cock is leaking now, a wet spot forming on my lower abs. I’ve never gotten this worked up from foreplay, not even with women who were actively trying to turn me on. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.
“It feels good,” I murmur, the words spilling from my mouth without permission.
Riley doesn’t seem disturbed by it. He works his way down my body, spending time on my abs, my obliques, places I didn’t even know could feel good when touched.
Then he moves to my legs, starting with my feet, which should be the least sexy part of me but somehow aren’t when he’s pressing his thumbs into my arches. He works up my calves, my shins, to my knees, and then—fuck—my thighs. His hands slide higher, under the towel, moving gradually closer to where I’m throbbing with need.
My breathing is erratic, my hips subtly shifting toward his hands. I can’t control it. It’s like my body has a mind of its own, seeking out his touch like a heat-seeking missile.
When his hands accidentally graze my balls as he massages the inside of my thigh, I nearly come apart. The sensation is too much, too good, too confusing. I hiss and grab his wrist, stopping him mid-motion.
Our eyes lock. His are wide, pupils blown out, mirroring the shock I feel. For a moment, we’re frozen like that, my fingers wrapped around his wrist, both of us breathing hard.
It’s too much. This whole situation. The confusion, the arousal, the way he’s looking at me like he can see straight through me to something I didn’t even know was there.
Without a word, I bolt upright, grabbing my clothes from where they’re folded on a nearby chair. The towel falls away, but I’m beyond caring about my nakedness now. I just need to get out, to get away from whatever the fuck is happening here.
“Jacob, wait—” Riley starts, but I’m already half-dressed, pulling on my pants without bothering with underwear, yanking my shirt over my head.
“I have to go,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes.
I’m out of the room before he can respond, fumbling with my shoes in the hallway, not even bothering to put them on properly. I hop toward the front door, shoving my feet in, grabbing my hoodie from where I draped it over his couch.
I don’t look back as I pull open his door and step into the hallway. I don’t want to see his face, don’t want to confront whatever just passed between us. I just want to get as far away as possible from Riley Shepard and the questions he’s raised inside me.
6
Riley
I stand flush against the warehouse wall, letting shadows swallow me while the crowd surges toward the empty cage. The Red Corner buzzes with bloodlust and beer, men and women packed shoulder to shoulder, their faces cast in crimson light from overhead floods. I don’t belong here. Everyone else is already three drinks deep, hungry for violence. Meanwhile, I’m sober in slacks and a dark sweater, heart pounding like I’m the one about to step into that cage.
Betting happens openly around me, cash changing hands, voices calling odds. Ten-to-one on Reyes, someone shouts. The Butcher. I’ve looked him up since Jacob mentioned him. His last opponent went to the hospital with a broken orbital bone. The opponent before that, a separated shoulder. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I shift my weight, feeling exposed despite the shadows. I tell myself I’m here to observe Jacob’s shoulder mechanics after my therapy session. If Jacob spots me here, I don’t know what will happen, but the thought makes my palms sweat. I scan the crowd, calculating escape routes if needed. The warehouse doors seem miles away, blocked by a sea of bodies. The only clear pathis a narrow corridor to my left, leading to what I assume are back rooms for the fighters.
“First time?”
I flinch at the voice. A woman with electric blue hair and tattoos crawling up her neck leans against the wall beside me, smirking like she can smell my discomfort.