Chapter 13

Roman’s eyelids, stubbornly resistant to sleep, peeled open to the dark. The red digits of his alarm clock glared back at him: 4:37. He exhaled a curse into the stillness of his bedroom, the sheets tangled around his body after a night spent chasing elusive dreams. Enough was enough. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well do something else. Maybe he should get some exercise in. It had been a while, and his body showed it. The gym in the basement beckoned like a promise or a threat. He hadn’t decided which yet.

With a grunt, he threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hit the soft plush rug, protecting him from the cold floor. His guest room was chilly at night, just like he preferred, but that meant getting up was a hardship.

He rose, muscles complaining, and shuffled toward the closet, where he snatched a pair of workout shorts and a T-shirt. He dressed quickly, swapping his silk pajamas for moisture-wicking fabrics—or so the labels claimed. Roman hadn’t actually tested it.

As he descended the stairs to the basement, the house was quiet. Everyone must still be asleep. Or not? The gym door stood ajar, and the lights were all on. Who else was up at the ass crack of dawn? He pushed it open, fluorescent lights flickering overhead as he entered.

Caleb.

Already pounding on the treadmill in a relentless rhythm, Caleb was a blur of motion. Earbuds in, world out, he was a study of discipline Roman envied. At Roman’s arrival, Caleb glanced up, lifted his hand in a casual salute, and returned to his relentless run. Roman waved back and watched him for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the sheen of sweat on Caleb’s brow, the way his tight tank top clung to the lean contours of his torso. There was an innate gracefulness to his strides, a poetry in the pistoning of his legs. He was, for lack of a more eloquent word, truly beautiful.

Shaking off the unexpected surge of appreciation, Roman walked to the far corner of the gym, where he’d carve out his path to redemption—one painfully earned rep at a time. He hated treadmills with a passion, and besides, he was not humiliating himself in front of Caleb. Nope. He’d choose a different instrument of torture.

The rowing machine groaned under Roman’s clumsy movements. The repetitive pull and release was a metronome to his scattered thoughts. Sweat trickled down his temple, a salty testament to his efforts as he found a tempo that didn’t scream for mercy. Each stroke was a conversation between muscle and willpower, a fight between quitting and persevering. His heaving chest was a not-so-subtle reminder of years spent behind desks rather than in the gym. Jesus, how long had it been? He was fucking dying, and he wasn’t even going that fast.

Across the room, the treadmill whirred to a halt. Caleb stepped off fluidly, no stagger or stumble, just grace. The kind of grace that came from confidence, from being completely comfortable with your body because you knew its capabilities—and its limits.

Caleb wiped his face off with a towel and walked to the boxing corner, right in Roman’s vision. Well, at least he’d have something nice to look at while he continued torturing himself.

Caleb wrapped his hands with a routine that betrayed his experience, tucked in the wraps, and tested their hold. He rolled his neck and positioned himself next to the boxing bag. The thud of glove against bag echoed through the room, even over the hum of the rowing machine. Roman couldn’t look away as Caleb danced around the heavy bag in a well-practiced choreography of jabs and hooks, his footwork light and precise.

What was it Muhammad Ali had said? “Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee.” That was what it looked like as if Caleb was floating, dancing, his body moving so fluidly. The roll of Caleb’s shoulders, the tightening of his arms, the flex and twist of his core with each hit held a beauty, a raw elegance that belied the inherent violence of boxing.

Finally, the rowing machine beeped, indicating Roman had finished his twenty minutes. Thank fuck for Caleb offering some much-needed distraction, or he would have never made it that far. He was panting as it was, needing a moment to catch his breath and wipe the machine down, then himself.

When he could breathe again without sounding like a steam engine, he went over to Caleb, who was still pounding the bag with relentless precision. This time, Caleb paused, his hands stilling the bag. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. Nice form. You make it look easy.”

“Thanks.” The corner of his mouth tipped up in a half-smile. “You’re up early.”

Roman sighed. “Couldn’t sleep. But don’t let me interrupt your workout.”

“The treadmill was my workout for today. This is just for fun.”

“Boxing is fun?”

“It sure is. It also happens to be a great cardio exercise, but that’s a bonus. Other than sex, it’s the best way to release some steam.”

Other than sex. He said it so casually. “Right. I’ll take your word for it, since I’ve never done any boxing.”

“Want me to show you some moves?”

Roman waved the offer away. “Nah, you do your thing.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. Let me teach you the basics. I promise you’ll love it.”

Caleb walked to a storage locker and pulled out an extra pair of boxing gloves. They looked worn, a history of battles etched into the leather. He tossed them to Roman, who caught them with surprising agility. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was being close to Caleb, but Roman felt more alive than he had in years.

“Let’s start with your stance.” Caleb stepped close enough for Roman to catch the scent of his cologne mixed with sweat—a heady combination that sent a jolt of awareness through his veins.

Roman slid his hands into the gloves, the padding snug around his knuckles. He mirrored Caleb’s posture: feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, hands up protecting his face.

“Good.” Caleb circled him like a predator assessing its prey. “Let’s start with the jab. It’s quick, like snapping a towel.” He demonstrated, shooting his arm out with precision. “Try it in the air before we take on the bag.”

Roman mimicked the movement, the glove cutting through the air. It wasn’t perfect, but the potential was there, waiting to be refined. He threw another one. “Like this?”

“Exactly. Now the cross. More power behind this one.”

Caleb showed him, the force of the punch making a satisfying whoosh.

“Cross,” Roman repeated, pivoting his body as he aimed the punch. Hmm, that wasn’t good. No force behind it. He tried again.

“Here, let me—” Caleb stepped in, adjusting Roman’s shoulder firmly. The touch sparked heat wherever skin met skin, a current that ran down Roman’s spine. “Twist your torso more. The power has to come from your core.”

His breath ghosted over Roman’s ear, which made it hard to concentrate. Still, his next effort was better, even though his core was buried somewhere under the extra padding he carried.

He threw an uppercut next, the gesture less about technique and more about the fire building in his gut.

“Nice. Let’s run through it again.” Caleb retreated a few steps to give Roman space.

One, two, three, the punches flowed, each hit better than the last. Roman found a rhythm, a connection to the power he wielded with every strike. Caleb’s presence urged him on, stoking the fire within.

“Jab, jab, hook,” Caleb said. “Perfect. Do it again.”

He kept throwing out sequences, and Roman did them, faltering at first but then with more confidence.

“Good. Now let’s see you hit the bag.”

Caleb stepped back, his blue eyes tracking every shift of Roman’s frame. He circled, watching Roman intently, and Roman couldn’t help but rise to the challenge.

Roman approached the bag, fists raised. He unleashed a sequence—jab, cross, hook—each strike punctuated by the grunt escaping his throat. Sweat ran in rivulets down his back, slicking his skin. This feeling of power, of losing himself to the physicality of the moment, was raw, so much more intense than Roman had realized. His muscles were screaming, those gloves weighing a hundred pounds now, but he kept at it.

“Keep your guard up.” Caleb guided Roman’s wrists, adjusting the angle of attack. “And pivot on your back foot.”

The subtle brush of Caleb’s fingers against his skin sent an unexpected jolt through Roman’s body, igniting a low thrum of arousal simmering beneath his focus. He grew half-hard, trapped in a tangle of exhilaration and desire as he shadowboxed the air.

Caleb watched him intensely, a smirk playing on those full lips. Tension crackled, a current that flowed with the rhythm of their breaths. Why Caleb was interested in him, Roman had no idea, but, man, was it intoxicating.

Roman’s fists thudded against the bag, a final barrage that left the air heavy with the scent of exertion. He stepped back, chest heaving, his sweat-drenched T-shirt clinging to him like a second skin.

“Damn.” Roman huffed out as he took off the gloves and stretched his red, raw fists. “I’m a mess.”

Caleb leaned against the wall, his eyes alight with an unmistakable spark of lust. “Don’t apologize. Men should sweat.” His tongue darted out, moistening his lips as if tasting the salt. “It’s hot as hell.”

Heat flushed through Roman, pooling in his groin. So he hadn’t imagined Caleb looking at him with want. Roman’s pulse hammered in his ears. The rules of engagement had shifted, and the unspoken invitation hung thick in the space they shared.

“Yeah?” Roman took off his shirt and flung it to the ground, then stretched, a flirtatious move he’d never attempted.

Caleb pushed himself off against the wall and came close. “You’re hard.”

“Mmm, I sure am. You wanna do something about that?”

Jesus, how did he have so much confidence all of a sudden? He was slick with sweat, still panting, yet he acted as if he was the most attractive man on the planet because, somehow, to Caleb, he was. Caleb dragged his finger down Roman’s chest. “What do you want me to do about it, Sir?”

Christ almighty. How was he supposed to resist the power of that word? Something broke free inside him. “Hands against the wall.”

Caleb’s eyes lit up, and he spun around, slapped his hands against the concrete with eagerness, and stuck his ass back. Roman didn’t move, entranced by the surrender, the offering laid bare before him. Then he grabbed Caleb’s thin running shorts with both hands and dragged them down. Oh, wow. The results of his handiwork from a few days before appeared, the red marks not fully faded.

“You like seeing your handprints on my skin, Sir?”

Caleb knew exactly what buttons he was pushing, but Roman couldn’t bring himself to be angry about it. Instead, he slapped Caleb’s right cheek, a fierce smack with his hand. “You’d better not get smart with me, boy, or I’ll show you what marks I can leave on your skin.”

They both froze. Holy shit, where had that come from? It had originated somewhere deep inside him, which scared Roman almost as much as the fact that he meant every word. What the ever-loving fuck was he doing? What had Caleb awakened inside him?

Caleb didn’t say anything, as if he’d realized it too, but watched Roman over his shoulder with concern in his eyes. Roman took a deep breath. “I’m okay,” he said softly. “I don’t know what… I’m okay.”

“That’s all that matters, Sir.”

Maybe he was right, and maybe he wasn’t, but what did it matter? Heat pulsed through his body, and right now, that would have to be enough. “I need lube.”

Caleb nodded to the corner, where a familiar bottle stood. Of course they’d have it everywhere in this house. Not that Roman was complaining. He hurried over, grabbed it, and rushed back, already shoving down his sticky underwear.

“I don’t need prep, Sir.”

“What?”

“I keep myself prepped now, Sir. So you can use me whenever you want. Just you.”

Roman made a sound he didn’t recognize, a sort of growl that came from deep within. Caleb had done that for him. “No one else?”

“No, Sir. Just you.”

He needed to have him. Fire burned through his veins, searing his insides. He put down the bottle and lined up behind Caleb, who helpfully spread his legs. Roman pressed his slick cock against his hole. If someone had told him that going in bare without any prep would be hot, he would’ve thought it ridiculous, but holy fuck, it was the most erotic thing ever.

“Beg for it. Beg for my cock.” The words fell from his lips like a dark promise of pleasure laced with dominance.

“Please, Sir…I need you to fuck me. Need your cock.”

He was lost. Irrevocably, utterly lost. With a shared breath that felt like a silent countdown, he pushed forward. Caleb’s body welcomed him, hot and tight, drawing him in until the world narrowed to the rhythm they created together. Roman gripped Caleb’s hips, anchoring him, each thrust punctuated by a grunt, a gasp, a groan. The smell of sweat and sex mingled, a potent blend that fueled Roman’s hunger.

“You can come when I do,” he snarled, and the little whimper Caleb made only added to the fire.

He fucked him hard, raw, without restraint, and Caleb met him thrust for thrust, taking everything Roman threw at him. They were caught up in it—the slick slide of flesh, the needy sounds between exhales—when the door creaked open.

Roman tensed, his gaze snapping toward the intrusion. Ryan and Alex stood there, frozen, eyes wide. Shit. Reality crashed over Roman like a bucket of ice water to his overheated body. He’d completely forgotten where they were, that the gym was a public space where anyone could walk in. He should’ve taken Caleb back to his room, should’ve ensured privacy.

“Fuck.” The word spat from Roman’s lips. But he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, even as awareness prickled his skin. Caleb was panting against him, sharing his every breath. They were close, so goddamn close, and Roman was teetering on the edge of a precipice he had no intention of backing away from.

“Don’t stop, Sir,” Caleb urged, voice raspy, his plea slicing through Roman’s hesitation. Caleb’s eyes didn’t reflect any shame, only the same wild need clawing at Roman’s control.

So he didn’t. He kept moving, kept claiming, kept owning every gasp and whimper Caleb surrendered to him. He rode the wave of exhilaration, of taboo, of the forbidden thrill that came with being watched. His rhythm never faltered, even as Ryan and Alex came closer, unashamedly watching them. Their presence, a silent audience to the carnal display, only heightened the tension coiling in Roman’s core.

A guttural sound broke from Ryan’s throat as he grabbed Alex and shed their clothes in a frenzied dance of limbs. They were entangled in seconds, their rhythm mirroring Roman and Caleb’s. Grunts mixed with flesh slapping against flesh and heavy breathing—the raw music of primal need.

The sight spurred Roman on and drove him deeper into the haze of pleasure clouding his vision. He saw nothing but Caleb’s flushed skin, felt nothing but the tight heat enveloping him, and heard nothing but the collective symphony of their unrestrained desires.

With each snap of his hips, Roman chased the edge, barreling toward release. Caleb keened below him, a siren call that beckoned Roman closer to the brink. His name, a ragged chant on Caleb’s lips, was the last push Roman needed. Pleasure erupted, fierce and blinding, ripping through him like a storm. He allowed himself to fall, to shatter, to give in to the pulse of pleasure that obliterated everything else. Caleb shuddered against him, crying out as he, too, came.

Roman leaned against the wall, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. What the hell had come over him?

But more importantly, why didn’t he feel any shame?