38. Wilder
Wilder
“So should we practice Coliseum style?” I ask, putting on the fingerless gloves and shoving the headgear over my head with a grin. “Fake bell and then go nuts?”
“Sure. But no sucker punches,” Oliver grumbles, staring at the helmet with a wrinkled nose. “I’ve practiced with my cousin before, but we’ve never worn these,” he mutters with confusion, looking the gear over like he’s never seen it before in his life.
Right. I know he can fight, but I don’t know if he’s ever used the safety gear for sparring.
“Here, I’ll help,” I say, throwing my gear off and marching over to him, taking the headgear from his hands.
Cautiously, he watches my every move as I undo the Velcro from the back of the helmet and loosen it up.
“This will go toward the back of your head, so there’s no chin strap to adjust. It all adjusts from back here.
You want it tight, but not uncomfortable.
It’s to help protect your skull from my killer ass punches.
” My lips break into a grin when he snorts at my remark, rolling his eyes.
“You fucking wish, Wilder,” he taunts.
“Sounds like you’re laying down a challenge, Davenport,” I tease, pulling it over his head.
Without thinking, my fingers brush against his cheeks and tuck under his soft jaw as I check the spaces between him and the helmet.
I ignore the small shiver running through him and swallow hard, trying to tell myself this is nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
“Maybe I am,” he teases back in a soft, breathy tone.
I don’t want to notice the fact that his chest is heaving, and his pupils dilate a fraction. Nope. I don’t fucking notice. At all. Not even the goosebumps spreading across his flesh when I lean in and Velcro the back of the helmet.
“Challenge accepted,” I mutter, looking him over and averting my damn wandering eyes.
Shit. Stop looking at his heaving chest and wondering what’s under the T-shirt he refuses to take off.
Goddamnit. Quickly, I clear my throat and step back, rubbing my neck.
“We, uh, use these all the time for practice. Me mostly so Malic doesn’t kick my ass and send me to the hospital.
Again. So, uh, how’s it feel? Not too tight?
We can adjust the Velcro in the back, but you want it a little snug for protection.
” Babbling. I’m fucking babbling about everything and anything right now.
But only with Oliver. There’s something about him.
Something that has my fucking dick chubbing up and my damn senses going out the window.
Maybe I’m bi. That’s a thing, right? Men loving men.
Men loving women. This is normal. Maybe I love every damn gender?
And Oli is my awakening? That happens, right?
You find the right person, and you vibe so well with them that your body reacts.
And that has to be what’s happening with me right now.
Or not.
Or maybe.
Fuck.
Internally, I shake it off because I could be reading this all wrong. We’re two buddies hanging out and having a good time by fake-fighting and blowing off some steam.
Oliver licks his lips and nods. “Feels fine, thanks.” He moves his head from side to side, testing it out. “Don’t think it’s going to slip.” He grins at me again, a light sparking across his green eyes like the challenge we threw down stands.
Now, get your shit together, Wilder. Do the fight. Have some fun. Blow off some steam. No big fucking deal. Also, don’t pop a chub. Don’t do it. Don’t get hard. Don’t do it.
Goddamn it.
“Good,” I choke out, taking one step back and stretching an arm across my bare chest, trying to rein myself in.
Maybe I need to get laid like Malic did.
One good romp in the sack with some rando would help take this tension away from me.
No, only if I could find someone who wouldn’t be clingy and weird.
“You sure you don’t want to borrow some shorts and take off your shirt?
” Regret immediately hits the tip of my tongue.
Oh, yeah, smart man, Wilder. Ask the guy you’re currently fighting your dick for to take off his shirt and show more skin. Smart as fuck.
Oliver quickly shakes his head. “Nope. I’m good in my sweatpants.” He swallows hard, a lump sliding down his throat. “I usually work out and fight in these, anyway,” he quickly adds, rushing his words.
Thank fucking God. Keep your clothes on, Oliver.
And I’ll do the same. Almost. It’s impossible to fight with my shirt on, so I quickly toss it away.
If I were a smart man, I would have worn loose sweatpants instead of the gym shorts that show everything underneath.
But I’m not a smart man. Especially now.
“You’re braver than me,” I snort, heading back to my own gear and putting it on slowly.
Deep breaths move through my lungs, and I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the now and getting myself under control.
Maybe I’ll look through the SlamApp love connections bullshit and try to find a hookup.
All this sexual tension can’t be good for me.
I shake out my limbs and turn on my heels, stopping cold when Oliver’s green eyes slide down my bare chest, down my legs, until he’s staring at the ground.
A heat goes through me. Maybe I should bail now and make up an excuse to fucking leave because the way he’s looking at me, I’m going to have to bend his ass over and…
“You ready?” I squeak and then clear my throat.
Fuck me. What was I thinking? This is the stupidest idea I’ve had in years. Yeah, bring the guy that’s confusing the shit out of you to a place where you’re barely dressed and about to beat the shit out of one another.
Genius of the year award goes to me. Jackson Wilder.
“I won’t go easy on you,” I say, getting into position. “You should do the same for me. Hit how you hit Brutus. Say ‘Onions’ if it gets to be too much or tap three times. Okay? We’ll keep this MMA. Standing. On the ground. No spine strikes. No gouging each other’s eyes out. You know, simple shit.”
“Onions?” Oliver asks, jumping on the balls of his bare feet. Shit. Even his toes look dainty and perfectly manicured.
“It’s like a safe word,” I say with a shrug, pulling my eyes away from his feet. For fuck’s sake. I shake my head. “If it gets to be too much. This is a friendly competition. We don’t want to actually hurt each other.”
“If that’s what you want, I’m down. I promise no eye gouging or groin kicks,” Oliver taunts teasingly, taking a step forward with a grin splitting his lips. “Waiting for your word.”
Well, there’s no time like the present to kick this shit off and get everything out of my damn head.
“Word.” I smirk, coming to the center of the ring and touching gloves with him. “Bring it on, Oli—” But I don’t get the words out when he lands a blow in my stomach, and I stumble back a few steps, trying to catch my breath.
Off to a great start already.
“So much for no sucker punches, Oliver,” I taunt, shaking it off and putting my hands up in defense.
“It’s not nice to lie, Wilder,” he quips, taking a step back while grinning wide and keeping his hands up.
Right. He’s not a newbie at this. He obviously knows what he’s doing. He’s had training. You don’t face Brutus and not have some sort of idea what you’re doing. Shit. He could actually kick my ass.
So why does that turn me on so fucking much?
Fuck it.
“Oh, you mean business, don’t you, Oli?” I say, righting myself and ignoring the pain developing in my stomach. Fuck. He got me good. Taking several deep breaths, I step forward again, locking on his movements.
“You said to bring it on.” He shrugs a shoulder, continuing to watch my every move like an expert. “Slowing down already, old man?” he quips playfully, letting his smile grow wider. A light I haven’t seen before beams in his eyes as his gaze locks on me.
He’s having fun.
“Slowing down? Old Man?” I ask, watching his every move and calculating my next one. Whatever happens next, I need to catch him off guard. “Not by a long shot, Davenport.”
“Bring it on,” he teases, waving a few fingers for me to come and get him.
I move forward again, keeping my stance tight and ready to pounce. Oli bounces on the balls of his feet, eyeing my every move. I grin, surging forward and throwing jabs near his head, which he dodges quickly, circling us around.
I grin. “I’ll be damned, you do know how to fight,” I tease again, earning the middle finger and a snort.
“Oh, I can show you more,” he quips, narrowing his eyes at me.
Our feet squeak against the flooring of the ring as we circle each other, taking a few jabs here and there, but barely landing any.
No matter how many quick punches I attempt to land, Oliver quickly weaves away from them and cockily grins at me.
Fucker. But I do the same, dodging his steady fist left and right.
We’re pretty evenly matched, but I’d never want to meet him in the middle of the ring.
“I can’t believe you doubted me,” Oliver cockily replies, landing a kick to my thigh and knocking me back a step. “Who is the champ now?” he gloats with a laugh, watching me as I recover.
“You’ll eat those words,” I chuckle, coming at him hard and landing a few kicks to the outsides of his legs, making him wobble a few times before he adjusts his stance and shakes his head.
I do it again, only this time my eyes widen when my foot connects directly to his dick.
“Fuck! Dude, I’m sorry.” I point to his groin, but he… hesitates.
Oliver’s eyes widen, and he looks down, stopping his movements. He swallows hard. “Right! Oh my God! It burns!” he hisses, holding his junk and turning his back to me with a slight whimper. “Dude. My dick!” he squeaks through a pained groan. “It hurts so baddddd!” he shouts more.
Instant shame runs through me, and sympathy pains roar through my junk. So long, chubby! You really did it now.