“I could have mailed this to you,” I say, my voice pitched for him alone despite the lunchtime clatter of silverware and conversations surrounding us. “But I thought you might want to see me again. After what happened between us.”
Victor’s eyes dart around the restaurant anxiously. The businessmen at the nearest table are deep in conversation, waiters weave between tables balancing trays, and the bartender has moved to the other end of the bar. No one’s paying us any attention, but Victor shifts his weight like he’s ready to flee.
“Nothing happened,” he mutters unconvincingly. “I was drunk.”
I lean in closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. “Were you drunk when you bent me over Julian’s armchair? When you made me come three times? When you told me what a good boy I was, taking your cock so deep?”
His breathing changes, becoming shallow and quick. The flush spreading up his neck tells me everything his words won’t.
“I haven’t thought about it,” he says, his voice rough. “It was a mistake.”
I laugh softly, the sound intimate between us. “You’re lying, Victor.” I trace my finger over the face of his watch, a casual caress that makes something shift in those dark eyes. “Your body gives you away. Always has.”
He swallows hard. “I’m not?—”
“Gay? Bisexual? Interested?” I shrug. “Labels aren’t important. But don’t lie about not thinking about it. I’ve got the fingerprint bruises on my hips to prove how much you enjoyed yourself.”
Victor’s jaw clenches, the muscle flexing beneath his stubbled skin. Something shifts in his eyes—a crack in the armor he’s desperately trying to maintain. For a heartbeat, I see the conflict raging inside him, the battle between the man he believes himself to be and the desires he can’t seem to control.
“Fine,” he says, his voice so low I have to lean in to hear him. “I’ve thought about it.” The admission costs him something—I can see it in the way his shoulders tighten, how his gaze drops momentarily to the floor before snapping back to mine with renewed defiance. “Every fucking night. Happy now?”
The confession sends a ripple of satisfaction through me. Not triumph—that would be too simple. This is something more complex, a recognition of the power struggle between us, and how beautiful Victor looks when he surrenders even this small piece of himself.
“But it will never happen again,” he continues, the words coming out rough-edged, as if scraped against the inside of his throat. “It was a one-time thing. A mistake.”
I don’t contradict him. I’ve learned that with men like Victor, denial is just part of the process. Instead, I watch the pulse thrumming at his throat, the way his fingers flex against thebar’s edge—all the little tells his body offers that contradict his words.
“My watch,” he says, extending his hand, palm up. “I want it now.”
I study his open palm—the calluses from years of fighting, the scrape across his knuckles from a recent bout. Hands that had explored my body so roughly. I drop the watch into his waiting hand, allowing my fingers to brush against his skin for just a moment longer than necessary.
He gasps sharply at the contact. Our fingers brush for only a moment, but electricity crackles between us—undeniable, visceral. His pupils dilate slightly, those dark eyes betraying what his words try so desperately to hide.
“Thanks,” he mutters, immediately breaking eye contact. Victor slides the watch onto his wrist, fastening it securely. “I hope we don’t see each other again.”
The declaration hangs between us, brittle and unconvincing. His voice carries none of the conviction it did when he commanded me to come for him that night, when he whispered filthy praise against my skin.
I don’t react to his statement—no raised eyebrow, no knowing smirk. I simply watch him adjust the watch on his wrist, his thick fingers surprisingly dexterous with the delicate clasp. Those same hands that had mapped every inch of my body, that had gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks I’m still tracing with my fingertips days later.
Victor turns abruptly, his broad shoulders tense as he begins to walk away. His steps are measured, deliberate—the careful retreat of a man fighting his own instincts.
“That’s unlikely,” I say, my voice carrying just enough to reach him.
I don’t raise my volume or rush to follow him. I simply take another sip of my whiskey and watch his reflection in the mirrorbehind the bar. His steps falter for just a heartbeat—nearly imperceptible unless you’re looking for it.
But I am looking. And I see everything.
12
VICTOR
Fight night always charges the air with a specific kind of electricity. The roar of the crowd, the smell of sweat and adrenaline, the primal energy that pulses through the space—it’s where I’ve always felt most at home. Most sure of who I am.
Tonight we’re packed to capacity. Nearly five hundred bodies crammed into the warehouse space, the ring lit like it’s the only place in the world that matters. Marco’s handling the door while I make my rounds, checking in with security, making sure the bar is fully stocked. This is my kingdom. The one place where everything makes perfect sense.
I’m halfway to the fighters’ area when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Probably Ray with an update on ticket sales or someone running late. I fish it out, tapping the screen without really looking at it.
My stomach drops when I see the name.