Pinning me, he nuzzles into my breasts, using me as a cushion for his weary head. Immediately his breaths deepen, his chest rises and falls against my abdomen, and his body becomes heavier.
And I’m locked beneath him again, but this time, it’s planned and strategic. He’s keeping me. Ugh.
Hothead.
Do all guys fall straight to sleep like this?
Or just the ones who exist on overdrive?
Dark hair flicks around under the overhead fan, so I comb my fingers through the strands, liking the shorter cut but missing the long fringe that usually hangs boyishly in his lashes. I sigh. He’ll be able to grow it now.
No more boxing.
What will that mean for him?
I know it’s his outlet. For all that pent-up emotion, for the fire that burns inside him, for the flames like veins beneath his skin. Sometimes, I can feel them when I touch his arms and sometimes, they lick out to sear anything close.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
xander
I lefther in my bed. I wanted to climb on top of her the second I woke up, sweating the memories of the past out through veins of fear and rage. With my cock so hard with the need to come, needing to fuck this feeling away, I nearly took her without consent, nearly rolled her to her stomach while she slept and—
But I couldn’t.
So, I’m downstairs in the gym. My muscles flare with pain as I beat the bag with such speed the heavy pendulous column doesn’t even sway. It holds fast at a forty-five-degree angle under the perpetual jabs.
One—No more fucking boxing.
Two—No more boxing.
Three—No more boxing.
Four. Five. Six.
What have I forgotten?
What have I lost?
A moment or a memory?
Yet, one stays so fucking true.
Lowering my head, my shoulder muscles bunch, and I roar in pain as they seize in warning. My body screaming for me to stop fucking up this bag as though it is my enemy. I imagine the bag is Chuck—Chuck, who I will never fight—his torso, his face. But then it’s my mum, so I close my eyes and rapidly beat the bag until the sound becomes one droning slam that echoes my inner screams from that wardrobe.
“Xander,” Kaya’s husky voice wraps around me, finding me in the chaos of my mind, but my fists don’t stop. I open my eyes, train them on the bag and keep thrusting. The crippling tightness is damn near blinding now, my muscles telling me to stop, break, but if I do, then I get hit. If I stop, then they have to protect me. If I stop, then I’m in a wardrobe alone, cowering in the corner, wishing my brothers would save me, and screaming praises to her, telling her how beautiful she is, how flawless. I’m weak! Nothing.
Fuck!
I growl. With my fists working harder, I ignore the ache, the convulsing, until my body physically shuts the fuck down.
Fuck.
My head hits the leather and I lean on the bag. My gloves grab the sides as my body wanes, nearly collapsing.
Focus, Xander.
I close my eyes, sweat flooding my face, tears breaking loose. I try to disguise them for her. She’s behind me. I can feel her getting closer, so I roll my head on the bag to smear the sweat and tears together. Mingle sorrow with exertion.
