Theo.
“Fuck,” I mutter, glancing around quickly to make sure no one’s watching me. My thumb hovers over the notification, heart suddenly pounding harder than any pre-fight jitters I’ve everhad. I should delete it without looking. Block his number. Forget he exists.
Instead, I tap to open it.
Loved seeing Daddy earlier.
The message floors me before I can brace for it, and the image beneath it loads immediately. Lacy black underwear stretched over lean hips—unmistakably male but delicate in a way that makes my mouth water. The photo cuts off just below his waist, showing only the outline of what’s hidden beneath that thin fabric, the slight curve pressing against lace.
I groan, immediately looking up to make sure nobody heard me. A cold sweat breaks out across my back despite the heat of the crowded space.
“Everything okay, boss?” Marco appears at my side, a concerned look on his face.
I slam the phone screen against my chest. “Fine. What do you need?”
“Jenkins is asking for you. Says he’s got a question about his opponent.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in five,” I manage, my voice sounding strangled even to my own ears.
Marco nods and heads back toward the locker rooms. The moment he’s out of sight, I look down at my phone again, at those long legs and narrow hips I had gripped so tightly just days ago.
I stare at those black lace panties, my dick hardening against my will. Fuck this. I’m so goddamn tired of having to hide erections like some horny teenager. It’s been days of this—getting hard at the gym, hard during meetings, hard in the fucking shower while I try to wash the memory of his body from my skin. And now, twenty minutes before the biggest underground bout of the month, here I am again, cock straining against my zipper because this man won’t leave me alone.
“Not now,” I growl, jabbing the power button on my phone. The screen goes dark, and I shove it deep into my pocket, adjusting myself with an angry tug. This is my world. He doesn’t belong here.
I push through the crowd toward the preparation area, nodding at regulars who’ve paid good money to be here tonight. This isn’t some public event—these fights are invitation-only, high-stakes fights for serious players and wealthy spectators. The kind of place where a man builds his reputation. The kind of place where that reputation can be destroyed just as quickly.
Jenkins is wrapping his hands when I enter the back room, his eyes lighting up when he sees me. “Boss, wanted to ask about?—”
“Later,” I cut him off, scanning the room. Something feels off. The energy’s shifted.
That’s when I see him—Rick fucking Dawson, standing by the water cooler like he belongs here, chatting up my fighters. My blood boils instantly, the tension in my body finding a target more acceptable than Theo.
“Who the fuck let him in?” I demand, loud enough that several heads turn. Dawson looks up, a smirk spreading across his face as he raises his water cup in a mock toast.
“Victor! Great setup you’ve got here. Classy operation.”
I move toward him, all thoughts of Theo and inappropriate erections replaced by pure rage. Dawson is the last person who should be in my space, eyeing my fighters, assessing my business.
“You’re not invited,” I say, standing close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne. “Get out before I have you thrown out.” My voice turns to a growl. “Now.”
Dawson just laughs, taking another sip of water. “Is that any way to treat a colleague? I’m just making small talk with some talent.”
“My talent.” I step closer, invading his space. “And we’re not colleagues.”
Jenkins and the others are watching now, the room gone silent. This is exactly what Dawson wants—to create a scene, to make me look unstable in front of my fighters.
I turn to Marco, who’s already moving toward us. “Show Mr. Dawson to his car.”
“I know where the door is,” Dawson says, but he doesn’t move.
“Apparently not.” I nod to Marco, who grabs Dawson’s arm.
“Take your hands off me,” Dawson snaps, but Marco’s already pulling him toward the exit.
“I’ll catch up with you boys later,” Dawson calls to my fighters as he’s being escorted out. “I pay better, and my venue doesn’t smell like piss.”
I follow them through the crowd, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth might crack. Once we reach the back exit that leads to the parking lot, I tell Marco, “I’ve got this.”