Page 20 of Filthy and the Beast

I sit up inch by inch. “Smart.”

Smiling, Damian hands me the resistance band. “Not smart enough to earn a self-defense lesson, though? Just one from the Sledgehammer while I’m staying here?”

I try to level with him. “Listen. Damian. I’ve trained two people in my life, okay?” And now one of them is dead. I don’t say that, though. I just feel the sorrow, buried deep inside me. “It’s complicated.”

Damian must sense something has shifted in my mood. Nodding, he takes a step back, letting me stretch in silence for a while.

Maybe I’m acting like an asshole again. Damn it.

When I sit up, Damian has started to stretch on the mat across from me. His legs are spread wide, his muscles taut, and my eyes catch on his bulge, cupped by the tight shorts.

He leans forward, smiling as he intercepts my eyes. “Your back is getting a lot better, huh? I guess a lot of retired boxers must have injuries to tend.”

“It’s not a boxing injury. Car accident.”

“Oh!” He looks concerned. “Was it—”

I cut him off. “Just me and a tree.”

Me, a tree, and the batshit mobsters who drove me off the road.

Damian gives me a sympathetic look. I don’t know what to do, so I bristle and return to my stretching. “I’ve got plenty of boxing injuries, too. And yeah. You’re right. We all end up a little worse for wear.”

“That’s where boxing actually stops making sense to me,” he muses. “I love games. Love them! Organized fun is one of my favorite things. I have this whole philosophy built around pleasure, actually. I orient my life around the things that bring me joy.”

I squint at him. “And how does that conflict with boxing?”

“You’re beating the shit out of each other! It obviously hurts. Unless you’re all masochists. Are boxers getting off on the pain? That’s the only framework I can think of. BDSM.”

I scoff. “What? No. It’s like working out. Hurts, but it feels good, too.”

I’m doing pelvic tilt stretches, knees bent, feet flat on the floor, ass planted. I wiggle my pelvis and bounce my hips like I’m supposed to, but with Damian across from me, right there between my spread legs, it feels weird.

He smiles at me while I roll my ass and then stands.

“Hurts so good,” he muses. “I suppose that makes sense. I still can’t reconcile getting punched over and over as an enjoyable activity, but like I told you the other day, it’s sometimes quite beautiful to watch. Like dancers.” He spins and leans against the post, his ass suddenly directly in my line of sight.

Tight.

Firm.

Round.

Heat rushes between my thighs. With a startled snort, I close my legs and start pushing myself up.

“Here.” Damian quickly bends to help me up. “Let me.”

One hand lands on my arm, the other on my side. I’m sweating, hurting and unsure how to move. My cock is rock-hard, thick in my sweatpants, and our bodies are close.

“Got it.” I stand, turning away abruptly to face the window. With no idea what else to do, I lift my knee and pretend to stretch.

Shit.

Breathe, Enzo. For fuck’s sake, just breathe.

Damian’s hand lands on my lower back, surprising me. My posture straightens properly, and relief flows through me.

“I told you.” His voice is behind me. “This is the part I help you with.”

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