“Fuck, you’re so tight around me,” he pants, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes lock with mine, pupils blown wide. “You like this, don’t you? Taking my cock like you were made for it.”
I grip his ass, pulling him deeper, wanting more. “Harder,” I command, my voice barely recognizable. “Don’t hold back.”
Theo’s pace turns savage. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with our harsh breathing. He angles his hips and hits something inside me that sends white-hot pleasure coursing through my veins.
“Fuck! There—right there,” I growl, my cock jerking untouched against my stomach.
“You’re mine, Victor,” Theo says, his voice thick with emotion. “All of you. Not just when we’re hidden away.”
He reaches between us, wrapping his fingers around my cock. The dual stimulation—his hand stroking me, his cock hitting my prostate—pushes me toward the edge.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” he promises, his rhythm faltering as his own release approaches. “Fill you up completely. Would you like that, Daddy?”
The filthy words combined with that name on his lips shove me over the edge. My back arches as I come in thick ropes across my abs, my body clenching around him. The intensity of the orgasm blindsides me, tearing a shout from my throat.
“Fuck, I feel you squeezing me,” Theo gasps, driving in one final time. “Taking my cum. Taking all of me.”
His hips stutter as he empties himself inside me, his face a beautiful mask of pleasure. Even through my haze, I memorize every detail—the flutter of his eyelashes, the parting of his lips, the flush spreading across his chest.
As we both come down, he collapses onto my chest and licks up all my spilt cum from it, still buried inside me. Our lips find each other in a deep, languid kiss that speaks volumes more than words ever could. I taste myself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it—of all of this—nearly breaks me.
39
VICTOR
In the days after throwing Dawson out of my gym, I wake each morning expecting chaos. My phone screen remains stubbornly quiet—no calls from sponsors pulling out, no texts from fighters jumping ship. The silence is almost worse than any fallout.
“Nothing yet?” Theo asks on our third morning after, his head resting on my chest.
“Not a fucking thing.”
I check my phone again before heading to the gym. The tension sits in my shoulders, making every movement stiff. Dawson’s the type to strike when it hurts most. His silence feels calculated, like the calm before a storm.
But as the week drags on, nothing changes. I run the gym like always. I train fighters, schedule bouts, and handle paperwork. The mundane predictability of it all almost makes me forget what’s hanging over my head.
Almost.
Marco corners me after training on Friday. “Boss, you gotta relax. You’re making everyone nervous.”
“Dawson’s planning something. I know it.”
Marco shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe he knows he’s outmatched.”
During evening training, I watch my core team working with the fighters. They move through the gym with easy confidence—Jonah coaching a young prospect, Micah demonstrating takedown defense, Remy and Cruz working the heavy bags.
Something’s different now. They look at me differently, talk to me differently. The wall I’d built between us—the one I thought protected my authority—it’s crumbling. And instead of feeling exposed, I feel... lighter.
Jonah catches me watching and nods, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. There’s respect there, deeper than before.
After everyone clears out, my core team stays behind.
“Since we’re all hanging around anyway, might as well make it official,” I say, grabbing my phone. “Team meeting. Anyone hungry?”
“Is that even a question?” Cruz laughs, dropping onto one of the benches. “I’ve been running on protein shakes all day.”
“Pizza,” Jonah suggests, already pulling up the delivery app. “The usual place?”
Marco nods. “Double order from last time. These animals eat like they’re still cutting weight.”