Chapter Thirteen

A Fae Prince’s Worn Jockstrap

Vince

I slowly swung my leg over so I wasn’t standing over him, still clutching my tingling cock. Crossbody’s breathing was shallow but beginning to calm, and he appeared dazed as his hooded eyes opened and his throat clicked with a swallow.

He wasn’t telling me to fuck off yet, so I stuffed my dick back into my shorts and quickly reached for the shirt restraining his wrists.

“Are your arms sore?” I asked hoarsely, wincing as I wondered if saying anything would trigger his defensive anger. But I had to ask. I had to make sure he was alright.

He licked his lips, his whole body trembling lightly, and shook his head. “No.”

When his arms were free, he slowly lowered them and pressed his palms into the mat, as if he was preparing to stand up. But he looked exhausted, wrung out and maybe in a tiny bit of shock, so when he didn’t move, I hurriedly lunged for his shorts.

The guilt was already rising back up, and with it came a desperation to do something for him. As if that would make it okay.

Discarding his jock, I gently slipped his shorts over his feet and up his legs, silently shocked when he let me. My palms skimmed his thighs, and an inexplicable lump formed in my throat when I felt how much they were quaking.

He weakly lifted his hips so I could tug the shorts over his ass and settle them in place. Then I grabbed his shirt again and heard myself say in a shockingly gentle voice, “Let’s get this back on.”

Again, he let me, lifting his arms tiredly so I could slip the shirt over his head. More guilt churned in my belly when I saw how stretched and warped the fabric was from being tied tightly around his wrists and the corner post.

“I’ll replace the shirt,” I said huskily, sitting back on my heels beside his carelessly splayed legs as he stayed leaning against the post, not seeming to have the energy to get up right now.

“It’s fine,” he answered in a weak, thready voice, fine golden hair hanging in a mess around his face.

I gnawed anxiously on my lower lip. Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that. Any of it. I shouldn’t have started goading him, saying that stuff again. I definitely shouldn’t have tied him up.

I shouldn’t have even suggested we keep rehearsing on our own. It had been a terrible idea. I should’ve known that… something like this would happen again.

Because it kept happening.

“I’m sorry,” I croaked. The part of me that knew how to treat a partner after sex—especially an intense encounter like that—wanted to pull him onto my lap and hold him until he was calm, until his wild emotions had settled. Look after him. But the rest of me recoiled at the idea. It was Crossbody. He’d hate it. I’d hate it.

We still didn’t like each other. Just because we apparently… meshed well during sex didn’t change that.

After an agonising pause, he finally looked at me. And something cracked just a little in my chest when his mouth wobbled.

“Why does this keep happening?” he asked hoarsely.

I swallowed thickly. “I don’t know.”

“We… we shouldn’t rehearse alone again.” He finally struggled to his feet, legs still trembling. I straightened myself, my knee cracking on the way up as I quickly nodded.

“No, yeah, we… we shouldn’t. We won’t.” Biting my lip again, I couldn’t stop myself from blurting, “Are you okay?”

Tension began to creep into his shoulders as he bent to snatch up his jockstrap. “I’m fine.”

He started making his way to the edge of the ring, and I heard myself call, “Crossbody.”

He stopped, shoulders hunched and his back to me. “What?”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” I croaked again, and saw him stiffen up even more.

After a moment of silence, he tersely asked, “Why do you keep apologising?”

“Because I—” I wet my dry lips. “I shouldn’t have… spoken to you that way. Said those things. Treated you like that.”

It was, for some reason, apparently the wrong thing to say. His hands clenched into fists, fingers tightening around his crumpled jock, and he whirled around to glare at me.

“But you did,” he bit out. “And you know why you did. We both know why you did.”

“What?” I blinked up at him, confused.

“You think it’s better to speak that way to me, knowing how it makes me—” He stopped as his nostrils flared, fresh colour blooming on his cheeks. “And then apologise after like it’s something to be ashamed of?”

“What?” I repeated in bewilderment. “I don’t think it’s—”

“Well done, Vince. You win again.” He let out a rough, derisive laugh. “Once again, you got to put me in my place ”—he sneered the words, mouth trembling again—“only to backpedal straight after to make sure I feel as small as possible. Congratulations.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” I tensed as frustration started to swell. In disbelief, I spluttered, “You think I’m trying to shame you for—” I gestured at the corner post we’d just had sex against. “For what you like? Why the fuck would I do that when I clearly like it too?”

His lips pulled back in a snarl as he stalked closer. “You’re not the one getting tied up and called a slut. You probably find it hilarious, don’t you? Turning me into that… thing for you. Making me like that. Desperate. Pathetic .”

“I only said that because you like it,” I yelled in frustration. “It sounds like you’re ashamed of it.”

“I’m ashamed that I ever let you touch me,” he snarled. “When all it is to you is another fucking game. Another way to beat me. Another way to try and make me feel small.”

“No, it’s not,” I shouted. Maybe it had been that first time, but now…

“Then why did you do it?” he shouted back.

“I don’t fucking know!”

His nostrils flared again as he took a step back, breathing hard. “I hate you.”

“I—” For some reason, the same words got clogged in my throat. Gritting my teeth, I lifted my chin and croaked, “Likewise.”

“I hate how much I let you get to me.” His chest was heaving now with angry breaths. “I hate how you make me feel. I hate that you…” A strangled sound of pure frustration tore from his throat, and before I could react, he was lifting his arm.

I jumped in shock when fabric smacked me in the face, my hand quickly reaching up to fumble with it.

I stared down at it in disbelief, then looked back up at him. “Did you just throw your jockstrap at me?”

Crossbody lifted his chin and made great effort to wipe the emotion from his face. “Yes.”

That kind of made me want to snort, but I knew he’d grow even more furious if I did.

Before I could think of any kind of response to being nailed in the face with a fae prince’s worn jockstrap, his enormous wings were bursting from his back and fluttering rapidly, filling the empty arena with a low, humming buzz. He flew out of the ring and landed with a stumble halfway to the door, then began striding the rest of the way without looking back.

A few seconds later, a loud clang echoed through the arena as the door slammed shut behind him. I slowly looked down at the jockstrap in my hand, not sure what the hell I was currently feeling.