⚠️ Mature Readers (18+) Only ⚠️
CHAPTER EIGHT
The gym is a cacophony of iron slamming against racks, drowning out the generic pop crap blaring over the speakers. I’m standing over the bench, spotting Liam as he grunts through his last rep. His chest heaves, sweat dripping off his brow, veins bulging like fucking roadmaps across his biceps.
“Solid spot, man,” Liam says, sitting up and grabbing his towel. He wipes his face, then looks at me with that same calculated glint he had the other night at the apartment. “You’ve got good form, Chris. And not just in the gym.”
I grab my water bottle, taking a long swig to mask the heat crawling up my neck. “Yeah?” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.
“Yeah. The way you handled Dante? Took direction like it was nothing?” He stands, towering over me even though I’m not exactly small at six feet. “You’ve got instincts. Most guys overthink it. Get stuck in their heads about what it means — straight, gay, whatever.”
I stare at the dumbbells on the rack, my grip tightening on the bottle. He’s right. For years, I’ve clung to “straight” like it’s a goddamn life raft, terrified of stepping one toe out of line. But after the other night — watching Milo and Evan tangled on the couch, seeing Dante beg for it, feeling the raw power of wrecking someone alongside Liam — I feel … fucking dumb.
“Pleasure is pleasure,” I mutter.
Liam grins wide, clapping a meaty hand on my shoulder. “Exactly, bro! If you’re down for more, I’m hitting a gathering tonight. Private crew. High energy, no judgment. Real primal shit.”
He doesn’t need to sell it. My pulse is already kicking. “I’m in.”
