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**"Christ, did they shrink the fucking doorframes just to piss me off?"**
The voice boomed through the dorm hallway before its owner even appeared—a voice like gravel and confidence, thick with an Australian drawl. Then he rounded the corner, and my stomach dropped.
Brodie "The Wall" Vexley.
Six-foot-fucking-seven of pure, pissed-off muscle, shoulders that looked like they’d been chiseled by a god with a grudge, and a scowl that could curdle milk. His wrestling singlet—stretched obscenely over his torso—was already sweat-stained and reeked of testosterone and cheap fabric softener. And the way his thighs strained against the material? Criminal.
Our eyes locked. His smirk was slow, deliberate. **"Well, fuck me sideways. If it isn’t little Luke fucking Hartley."**
Little. Like I hadn’t grown since high school. Like he hadn’t fucking doubled in size since our last match.
**"Brodie."** I barely got the name out before he ducked through the doorway (barely—his shoulder clipped the frame), tossing his duffel onto the bed like he owned the place. Which, knowing him, he already thought he did.
**"Cozy,"** he drawled, surveying our shoebox of a room before flopping onto his mattress. The frame groaned. **"Hope you don’t mind me stretching out."** He smirked, spreading his legs wide—deliberately, obnoxiously—until his knee bumped my thigh.
I ignored the heat crawling up my neck. **"Try not to stink up the place with your singlet."**
His laugh was low, dangerous. **"You always did hate losing to me, huh?"**
**"We were the same weight class."**
**"Key word: *were.*"** He flexed his bicep—just to be an asshole—and the vein popped. **"Guess they don’t make ‘em like me in the States."**
I clenched my jaw. **"Guess not."**
Silence. Then—
**"Coach is pairing lightweights with heavies this year."** His grin was pure fucking trouble. **"Hope you’re ready, Hartley."**
The way he said it—like a promise, like a threat—sent a shiver down my spine.
Fuck.
That was the only word looping in my skull when Coach blew the whistle the next morning, his clipboard pointing straight at us like a damn execution order. "Vexley—Hartley. Pair up."
Brodie didn’t even try to hide his grin.
The mat was still cold under my bare feet as he loomed over me, casting a shadow that swallowed me whole. His singlet clung to every fucking ridge of muscle, the fabric strained taut over his chest, his thighs—hell, even his goddamn *cock* was outlined like some kind of obscene trophy. And he *knew* it.
"Ready to dance, mate?" He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders until the sinew popped.
I gritted my teeth. "Just get it over with."
The whistle blew.
He moved like a fucking avalanche—no finesse, just raw, brutal force. His palm slammed into my chest, knocking me back two steps before I could even plant my feet.
"Come *on*, Hartley," he taunted, circling me with that lazy, infuriating swagger. "Thought you Yanks were supposed to be scrappy."
I feinted left, ducked right—got one fucking hand on his bicep before he *twisted*, his grip locking around my wrist like a vise. His breath was hot against my ear. "Cute try."
Then his hips drove forward, grinding me into the mat with his full weight. Every inch of him pressed against me—his chest flush to my back, his thighs bracketing mine, and *fuck*, the thick ridge of his cock wedged right against my ass.
I jerked, but his grip only tightened. "Stay down," he rumbled, voice dripping with smug satisfaction.
The heat flooding my veins wasn’t just anger.
And he *felt* it.
His chuckle vibrated through me, low and knowing. "That’s it. Know your place."
The whistle blew again—three fucking seconds too late.
As he hauled me up by the collar of my singlet, his smirk was downright predatory. "Better luck next time, *little* guy."
I yanked free, my pulse hammering in my throat.
This was war.
I realized it the moment Brodie's fucking singlet landed on my pillow—still damp, still reeking of sweat and arrogance—while he grinned from across the room like he'd just pinned me all over again. "Oops," he drawled, stretching his arms behind his head, making every muscle in his torso flex under his thin white tee. "Must’ve missed the laundry bin."
Bullshit. The bin was two feet to his left.
I flicked the singlet off my pillow with two fingers, nose wrinkled. "You’re disgusting."
"Funny," he said, kicking his feet up on his desk, the wood creaking under his weight. "Didn’t hear you complaining yesterday when I had you flattened on the mat." His gaze dropped pointedly to my waist. "Actually, you were kinda... squirming."
My teeth ground together. Squirming. Because his dick had been grinding into me like he was trying to start a fire, and my body had betrayed me with a traitorous rush of heat. Not that I’d ever admit it.
"Keep dreaming, Vexley."
He chuckled, low and rough, and reached for his water bottle—only to deliberately knock mine over with his elbow. Water flooded across my notebook, ink bleeding into soggy oblivion.
Our eyes locked.
His smirk said *try something*.
I lunged.
What happened next was a blur of grappling limbs and hissed curses, Brodie’s laughter vibrating through me as he effortlessly flipped me onto my back on his bed, his massive frame caging me in. "Fuckin’ hell, Hartley," he breathed, amused. "You’re *really* bad at this."
I bucked beneath him, my knee driving upward—only for him to catch it with one hand, pinning it to the mattress with infuriating ease. His other hand splayed across my chest, holding me down like I weighed nothing.
"Admit it," he taunted, his smirk widening as he leaned closer, his breath hot against my jaw. "You *like* this."
The words sent a jolt through me—white-hot and humiliating. "Fuck you," I spat, twisting violently, my forearm slamming against his throat.
He barely flinched.
Instead, his grin turned downright wicked. "Oh, *there* it is," he murmured, his hips grinding down—just enough to make me feel him, hard and unmistakable. "That fire. Fuck, you’re cute when you’re pissed."
Cute.
*Cute.*
That word detonated something primal in me. My fingers dug into his bicep, my legs scrambling for leverage as I arched up, snarling. "I’m gonna *break* you."
Brodie’s laugh was dark, delighted. "Try."
And I did.
With a surge of strength fueled by sheer fucking spite, I twisted, rolling him onto his back—or at least, I *tried* to. He barely budged, his body immovable as a mountain. But the momentary shift gave me an opening—my knee wedged between his thighs, my forearm pressing against his windpipe.
His eyes flashed, surprise flickering beneath the amusement.
For half a second—just half—I had him pinned beneath me, my knee digging into the meat of his thigh, my forearm pressing against the thick column of his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed against my skin, and something wild coiled in my gut at the feel of his pulse hammering against me.
Then his hips rolled.
Not away—*upward*. His grip on my wrist tightened, his other hand sliding down to clamp around my hip as he ground himself against me with a slow, deliberate roll of his pelvis. The friction was brutal—his cock, thick and insistent, pressed flush against mine through our shorts, the heat of him searing even through the fabric. A ragged breath punched out of me before I could stop it.
Brodie’s smirk was filthy. “There he is,” he murmured, voice rough with something that wasn’t just victory. His fingers dug into my flesh, holding me in place as he did it again—another torturous grind, his hips canting up against me like he was testing how far I’d let him take this. “Knew you had fire in you, Hartley.”
I should’ve kneed him in the balls. Should’ve spat in his face. Instead, my breath hitched—just for a second—but it was enough. His eyes darkened, his grip tightening as he leaned up, his lips brushing my ear. “Still got me pinned, huh?” A hot, mocking chuckle. “But here’s the thing, mate—even when you’re on top, *I* win.”
The words vibrated through me, low and possessive. My stomach twisted—not with disgust, but something worse, something electric. His fingers traced my hipbone through my shorts, slow and deliberate, and fuck, I could *feel* him, hard and eager against my thigh.
Then—knuckles rapped sharply against the door.
“RA check!” A bored voice called from the hallway. “You guys decent?”
Brodie froze. So did I. His breath fanned hot against my lips, our bodies still tangled, still pressed together in a way that screamed *guilty*. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved—then, with a grunt, he shoved me off, rolling onto his back just as the door creaked open.
The RA—some skinny sophomore with a clipboard—barely glanced up. “Both present? Cool.” His gaze flicked between us, lingering on Brodie’s disheveled hair, my flushed face. “Uh… you good?”
“Peachy,” Brodie drawled, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just been moments away from grinding me into the mattress. “Just wrestling.”
The RA’s eyebrows shot up. “In your *dorm*?”
“*Mental* wrestling,” I snapped, yanking my shirt straight. “Argument. We were arguing.”
Brodie snorted. “Yeah. About who’s top dog.” His grin was a challenge. “Obviously me.”
The RA blinked. “Right. Well. Keep it down.” He backed out, shutting the door with a click that felt *final*.
Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
Brodie exhaled through his nose, rolling onto his side to face me, his elbow propped on the mattress. “So.”
I clenched my fists. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He dragged a hand through his hair, hissing as his fingers caught on a tangle. “Call you out for getting hard while I had you pinned?” His grin was wolfish. “Or for *liking* it?”
I launched at him again—not to fight, this time, but to *shut him up*, my palm smacking over his mouth as I straddled his waist. “You’re *full of shit*.”
He licked my palm. I recoiled.
“Fucking—*animal*,” I spat, wiping my hand on his shirt.
Brodie’s laugh was dark, his hands settling on my hips like he had every right to touch me. “Face it, Hartley.” His thumbs dug into the divots above my waistband. “You *hate* that I’m bigger. That I’m stronger.” His voice dropped. “That I can *take* what I want.”
The words shouldn’t have sent a thrill down my spine.
But they did.
*You hate that I can take what I want.*
Brodie’s voice—rough with amusement, thick with that goddamn Australian drawl—echoed in my skull long after the RA left. It clung like the stench of his sweat-soaked singlets, which, by week three, had begun colonizing every surface of our dorm. His dominance wasn’t just physical; it was environmental warfare. A stray sock on my desk. A half-empty protein shake left to curdle on my nightstand. And always, *always* that fucking smirk when I snapped.
Wrestling practice was worse.
Coach’s sadistic "lightweight-heavyweight integration" policy meant Brodie’s hands were on me daily—his palms rough against my ribs, his thighs bracketing mine, his breath hot on my neck as he effortlessly flipped me onto the mat. And every damn time, he made sure I *felt* him—his cock pressing against me through our gear, his hips grinding just a fraction too long after the whistle blew.
"Again," Coach barked, and Brodie’s grin was a blade.
I lunged. He countered. His bicep flexed under my grip, veins popping as he twisted, his body slamming into mine with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. My back hit the mat—*hard*—and before I could buck him off, his weight settled over me, deliberate, crushing.
"Yield," he rumbled, his knee nudging my thighs wider.
I spat in his face.
He wiped it off with a laugh, his hips rolling—*once*—just to remind me. "Stubborn little shit."
The worst part? He wasn’t even *trying*. I could see it in his eyes—the lazy amusement, the way he held back just enough to make me *work* for my humiliation. Like I was a toy. A challenge. Something to break slowly.
And the *fucking* irony? The more he pushed, the harder I fought back. Not just with fists or grappling—but with words, with looks, with the way I "accidentally" left my towel draped over his bed after showers, still damp with my scent. Two could play this game.
Then came the night everything shifted.
Rain lashed the windows, turning the campus into a watercolor blur. Brodie was sprawled on his bed, shirtless, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other lazily palmed himself through his sweats. Not even hiding it. Just—*existing*, like his comfort was a weapon.
I glared. "Do you *ever* think about privacy?"
He didn’t look up. "Do you ever *stop* staring?"
My jaw clenched. "I’m not—"
"Bullshit." His thumb stroked lazily over the outline of his cock, his smirk widening when my breath hitched. "You’ve been clocking me since practice. Saw the way you looked when I had you pinned."
Heat flooded my cheeks. *Fuck*. He wasn’t wrong.
Brodie’s chuckle was dark as he finally set his phone aside, sitting up in one fluid motion. "Tell you what, Hartley." His fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down just enough to reveal the thick, flushed head of his cock. "Since you’re so *curious*—"
I should’ve walked away.
I didn’t.
His grin turned feral as I stepped closer, my pulse hammering in my throat. "That’s it," he murmured, his hand stroking slowly. "Come get a real look."
The air between us crackled—charged, dangerous. My fingers twitched at my sides.
Then his free hand shot out, gripping my wrist and yanking me forward until I stumbled into him, my knees hitting the edge of his mattress. His breath was hot against my lips. "Go on," he dared. "Touch it."
I swallowed. "You’re fucking insane."
"And you’re *hard*." His thumb brushed the tent in my shorts, and I jerked—but his grip tightened, holding me in place. "Tell me to stop," he challenged, his voice rough. "Go ahead."
I didn’t.
His laugh was triumphant as he guided my hand to his cock, his fingers wrapping around mine, forcing me to feel the thickness of him, the heat. "There. Now we’re even."
But we weren’t.
Because when I finally wrenched free, my palm stung with the memory of him—and his smirk said he knew *exactly* what he’d just started.
**"Bus leaves in ten,"** Coach barked, slapping the locker room doorframe. **"Don’t be the dipshits who make us late."**
I was the first one out—not because I gave a shit about punctuality, but because the thought of being trapped in a confined space with *him* for two hours made my skin prickle. The bus was half-empty when I boarded, and I beelined for the back, sliding into a window seat like it was a goddamn lifeline.
Then the door hissed open again.
Boots thudded down the aisle. Laughter—loud, obnoxious, *his*—rippled through the bus as more of the team piled in. I kept my eyes glued to my phone, fingers tight around the case, until the shadows shifted and *he* loomed over me.
**"Seat’s taken,"** I muttered without looking up.
Brodie’s chuckle was a low, knowing rumble as he dropped into the space beside me—*forcing* himself into it, his thigh pressing flush against mine, his shoulder crowding me against the window. **"Not anymore."**
I gritted my teeth. **"There’s a whole fucking bus."**
**"Yeah."** He stretched his legs out, knees bumping the seat in front of us, and smirked when I had to hitch mine up to avoid the contact. **"But this one’s *fun*."**
The engine growled to life, and Brodie took that as an invitation to *spread*—his arm draping over the seat behind me, his fingers drumming idly against the headrest, close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin.
**"Relax, Hartley,"** he murmured, lips brushing my ear as the bus lurched forward. **"It’s just a ride."**
Bullshit.
Nothing was *just* anything with him.
And when his knee nudged mine—deliberate, insistent—I realized with a sinking stomach that this wasn’t a bus ride.
It was a *match*.
And he’d already pinned me.
Not on the mat—on the fucking bus.
His thigh pressed against mine like a branding iron, heat searing through the thin fabric of my sweats. The seat was too small for his massive frame, forcing me to either cram myself against the window or surrender to the inevitable press of his body. I chose the window. Brodie chose *victory*, spreading his legs wider until his knee pinned mine to the side of the seat, his smirk a silent *checkmate*.
"Comfy?" he murmured, his breath warm against my temple as the bus hit a pothole, jolting us closer.
I didn’t answer. The truth was a landmine—because *no*, I wasn’t fucking comfy, not with his bicep brushing my shoulder, not with the way his fingers drummed against the seatback like he was counting down to something inevitable.
Then his knee shifted—higher—until it brushed the inseam of my shorts.
My breath hitched.
Brodie’s grin was wolfish. "Oops."
The bus lurched again, and his hand "slipped" from the seatback to my thigh, fingers splaying possessively over the muscle. "Better hold on," he drawled, squeezing just enough to make my pulse jump. "Wouldn’t want you to *fall*."
Like hell.
I twisted, kneeing his thigh—hard—but he just laughed, low and rough, his grip tightening. "Try that again," he dared, lips grazing my ear, "and I’ll pin you right here."
A shiver ripped down my spine.
Worse?
He knew it.
The moment Brodie’s knee nudged higher—deliberate, testing—something snapped inside me. His smirk was too sharp, his fingers too heavy on my thigh, his breath too hot against my ear when he murmured, **"You’re wound tight, mate."**
I shoved his hand off. **"And you’re a fucking nuisance."**
Brodie’s laugh was low, dangerous. **"Nuisance, huh?"** His fingers drummed against the seatback again, slow and taunting. **"Funny. Thought you liked a challenge."**
**"Not yours."**
**"Liar."** His knee pressed harder into mine. **"Tell me something, Hartley—how many times’ve you thought about that match sophomore year? The one where I *flattened* you?"**
My jaw clenched. **"Zero."**
**"Bullshit."** His thumb brushed my thigh—once—like he was savoring the way I stiffened. **"You remember *exactly* how I looked on top of you."**
The bus hit a pothole, jolting us closer. His chest brushed my shoulder. **"Fuck off,"** I hissed, twisting away—but there was nowhere to go.
Brodie’s grin widened. **"Bet you still dream about it."**
**"Dream about *strangling* you, maybe—"**
Then—salvation. The bus’s brakes groaned as we lurched into a roadside pit stop, the fluorescent lights of a gas station flickering through the rain-streaked windows.
Brodie sighed, rolling his shoulders. **"Saved by the bell, Hartley."**
I was out of my seat before the engine fully died.
But his laughter followed me into the storm.
And *fuck* if it didn’t sound like a promise.
The rain had let up by the time I slammed the gas station door behind me, the bell overhead jingling like some kind of sick joke. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make my already-throbbing headache worse. I beelined for the cooler, grabbing the first energy drink my fingers brushed—cherry-flavored, disgusting, *perfect*—because caffeine was the only thing standing between me and throttling Brodie with his own fucking shoelaces.
The cashier didn’t even look up as I slapped the can onto the counter. Somewhere behind me, the door chimed again, and I didn’t have to turn to know who it was—the air itself shifted, thickening with the scent of rain-soaked cotton and that goddamn cologne Brodie wore just to piss me off.
**"Running away, Hartley?"** His voice curled around me like smoke, too close, too *knowing*. **"Thought you had more fight in you."**
I dug a five out of my wallet, crumpling it in my fist before tossing it at the cashier. **"Thought wrong."**
Brodie’s chuckle was a dark, velvety thing as he stepped into my space, his chest brushing my shoulder. **"Nah."** His fingers grazed my waist, fleeting but deliberate, as he reached past me to grab a bag of jerky. **"You just need the right *motivation*."**
The cashier finally glanced up, bored, as Brodie dropped a twenty on the counter without breaking eye contact with me. **"Keep the change."**
Then his hand clamped around my wrist.
**"Bathroom. *Now*."**
It wasn’t a request.
I wrenched free, but Brodie was already herding me toward the hallway, his body a wall of heat at my back. **"The *fuck* you think you’re—"**
**"Finishing what you started on the bus,"** he murmured, lips grazing the shell of my ear. **"Unless you’re *scared*."**
I spun, shoving him back—or trying to. His chest didn’t budge. **"You’re delusional."**
**"And you’re *hard*,"** he countered, thumb brushing the front of my shorts before I could smack his hand away. **"Again."**
My pulse hammered, furious and traitorous. **"Fuck. *Off*."**
Brodie grinned, stepping closer—until the hallway was a prison of his body and the stench of stale nachos. **"Make me."**
Then—salvation.
**"Hartley!"**
Coach’s voice cracked through the gas station like a whip. Brodie froze. I exhaled.
**"Need you to help with the gear,"** Coach barked, jerking his thumb toward the bus. **"Now."**
Brodie’s smirk didn’t falter, but his grip on my wrist tightened—just for a heartbeat—before he let go. **"Duty calls,"** I drawled, stepping back with a mock salute.
I didn’t look back as I shoved past him.
But I *felt* his gaze on me the whole damn way to the bus.
Coach's "help with the gear" had been a glorified two-minute task—just long enough to stack a few duffels while Brodie loitered by the gas pumps, his hoodie soaked through from the rain, his arms crossed like a goddamn bouncer waiting for me to slip up. I didn't. Instead, I boarded first and slid straight into the seat beside Assistant Coach Riggs, burying myself in a clipboard of scouting notes for my next match.
"Seriously?" Riggs raised an eyebrow as I flipped pages with unnecessary aggression. "You're *volunteering* for extra homework?"
I stabbed my pen into the margin. "Scouting's strategic."
"Uh-huh." Riggs snorted, flipping through his own notes. "Or you're avoiding someone."
My pen froze mid-scribble. "Don't know what you're talking about."
Coach Riggs snorted, tapping his clipboard against my knee. "Kid, I've seen less tension in hostage negotiations." His gaze flicked toward the back of the bus where Brodie had slumped into a seat, his stormy expression visible even through the rain-streaked windows. "That Aussie's got you wound tighter than a new singlet."
I flipped another page violently. "Just want intel on Sheffield's weak points."
Riggs chuckled, shaking his head. "Sure you do." He leaned back, stretching his legs into the aisle as the bus engine roared to life. "Just remember—whatever pissing contest you've got going with Vexley? Save it for the mat."
As if I needed the reminder. The rest of the ride passed in a tense ceasefire—Brodie stayed planted in the back with his headphones in, thumbing through his phone with that infuriating half-smirk, while I memorized Sheffield's match history like it was the fucking SATs. Every time the bus hit a bump, I caught Brodie's gaze flicking up, dark and knowing, before he'd deliberately stretch his arms behind his head, making every muscle in his torso flex under his damp hoodie.
*Fucking showoff.*
The thought hissed through my brain as Brodie stretched his arms overhead in the cramped bus seat, his biceps straining the sleeves of his hoodie. He smirked when he caught me staring—like he knew *exactly* how much I hated the way my pulse jumped when his shirt rode up, revealing that stupid V of muscle above his hips.
I jammed my earbuds in harder.
By the time we reached the hotel, my jaw ached from clenching it.
**"Listen up!"** Coach clapped his hands as we piled into the lobby, his voice echoing off the tacky floral wallpaper. **"Rooms are tight. Hartley, Vexley—you’re already bunkmates, so you’re together. Bed’s a queen, don’t kill each other."**
My stomach dropped. **"Wait—"**
Brodie slung his duffel over his shoulder with a grin that made my fingers curl into fists. **"Cozy."**
The elevator ride up was worse than the bus. Shoulder-to-shoulder in the mirrored walls, I could see the exact moment Brodie’s gaze dipped to my reflection—lingering on the way my throat moved when I swallowed, the flush creeping up my neck.
*Asshole.*
The room was barely bigger than our dorm. One bed. One nightstand. One *problem.*
Brodie tossed his bag onto the mattress like a claim flag. **"Dibs."**
I shoved it off. **"Fuck you. Flip for it."**
He caught the quarter I chucked at his chest without blinking. **"Heads."**
It landed tails.
I smirked. **"Move your shit."**
Brodie didn’t even glance up from his phone. **"Make me."**
That was all it took.
I lunged—not for his duffel, but for *him*, fingers hooking into the collar of his hoodie as I twisted, trying to flip him off the bed. His laugh was a dark rumble as he countered effortlessly, his bicep flexing against my grip before he yanked me down, rolling us both onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Elbows jabbed, knees bucked, and somewhere in the mess of it, his teeth grazed my shoulder—*hard*—before I retaliated by driving my forearm into his ribs.
**"Fucking *childish*,"** I snarled, twisting beneath him, my knee slamming into his thigh.
Brodie grinned, breathless, his hips grinding down just enough to remind me who was heavier. **"Says the guy *wrestling* for a bed."**
Then the door slammed open.
**"Christ on a *cracker*."** Coach Riggs stood framed in the doorway, his expression caught between exasperation and amusement. **"You’re both grown-ass men. Share the goddamn bed and quit acting like feral cats."**
Silence.
Brodie exhaled, rolling off me with deliberate slowness, his smirk lingering like a challenge. **"Fine."** He patted the mattress between us. **"But no hogging covers, Hartley."**
I flipped him off—but when the lights clicked off an hour later, the heat of his body inches from mine was a *whole* new kind of torture.
**"You’re breathing too loud,"** I muttered into the dark.
His chuckle was low, *dangerous*. **"You’re thinking too loud."**
That was the last thing I remembered before sleep dragged me under—Brodie’s taunt vibrating through the dark, his body heat radiating across the scant inches between us like a fucking furnace.
I woke up drowning in him.
Not metaphorically. *Literally.* My face was crushed between his pecs, my nose smushed against sweat-slick muscle that smelled like salt and that goddamn cologne he bathed in. His arm—thick as a fucking tree trunk—was locked around my shoulders, pinning me to his chest like a teddy bear he’d die before surrendering. One of his thighs was thrown over mine, his knee wedged between my legs like a goddamn claim stake.
And—*worst* of all—he was *snoring.*
Soft, rhythmic puffs of air ruffled my hair where his chin rested atop my head. His heartbeat thudded against my cheek, slow and steady, like this was *normal.* Like I hadn’t spent the last three weeks fantasizing about shoving him into a locker.
I tried to wrench free.
Brodie’s arm tightened, pulling me flush against him with a grunt. **"Mm. No."** His voice was sleep-rough, slurred with dreams, but his grip was iron.
My knee jerked up on instinct, aiming for his groin—but he caught it between his thighs, *trapping* me with infuriating ease. **"Fuckin’ hell, Hartley,"** he muttered, his breath hot against my scalp. **"Just *sleep*."**
Like it was that simple. Like my pulse wasn’t hammering loud enough to *wake* him. Like his dick wasn’t pressed against my hip, half-hard and *insistent.*
**"Let *go*,"** I hissed, twisting, my elbow jabbing into his ribs.
Brodie sighed—long-suffering—before rolling *with* me, flipping us until I was pinned beneath him, his weight crushing me into the mattress. His hips settled between my thighs, his forearms caging my head. **"There."** His smirk was audible. **"Now we’re *both* awake."**
I bucked. He didn’t budge.
**"Get *off*—"**
**"Make me,"** he murmured, lips grazing my ear. **"Oh, wait."** A taunting grind of his hips. **"You *can’t*."**
The hotel AC hummed. Somewhere outside, a car alarm wailed. And beneath Brodie, *trapped* by Brodie, I did the only thing I could.
I headbutted him.
**"*Fuck*—"** He recoiled, clutching his nose—and I *moved*, scrambling backward until my shoulders hit the headboard. **"You *broke* my fucking nose—"**
**"Good,"** I spat, wiping my mouth where his sweat had smeared. **"Now maybe you’ll *breathe* quieter."**
Brodie stared at me—blood trickling between his fingers, eyes wild with something between fury and *hunger*—before lunging.
The headboard cracked against the wall as he *tackled* me, his hands manacling my wrists, his knees forcing my legs apart. **"You,"** he growled, **"are *gonna* regret that."**
I grinned, savage. **"Try me."**
And—*fuck*—he did.
Brodie’s grip was iron as he flipped us, rolling me onto my side like a damn ragdoll, his chest flush against my back, his thighs bracketing mine. His breath was hot on my nape, ragged with irritation, but his hands didn’t move—just *held*, fingers splayed over my ribs, thumb pressed into the dip of my waist. A human straitjacket. No leverage. No escape. Just the relentless heat of him, the weight of his body pinning me to the mattress like he was claiming territory.
I gritted my teeth. "Get off."
His laugh vibrated against my spine. "Make me."
I bucked—once, twice—but he just tightened his hold, his knee sliding between mine to anchor me further. The bastard was *smirking*; I could *feel* it against my shoulder blade. "Go to sleep, Hartley," he muttered, lips brushing my skin with the words. "Or I’ll make you."
A threat. A dare. A *promise*.
And the worst part? I believed him.
So I stopped fighting. Not because I surrendered—never that—but because the exhaustion hit like a freight train, and Brodie’s body was, against all logic, *warm*. The kind of warmth that seeped into your bones and made your eyelids heavy, the kind that turned tension into something sluggish and thick. His heartbeat thudded against my back, steady as a metronome, and somewhere between one breath and the next, I *slipped*—into something hazy, something *close* to sleep.
Brodie’s fingers flexed against my ribs, just once, like he knew.
And when I woke up hours later, dawn bleeding through the curtains, he was still there—arm slung over my waist, face buried in my hair, his grip slack with sleep but *there*.
I didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Because the moment I shifted, Brodie’s fingers twitched against my stomach, curling possessively into the fabric of my shirt like he’d *forgotten* who I was—only that I was *his* to hold. His breath was warm against the nape of my neck, slow and even, and for one stupid, traitorous second, I let myself *lean* back into it.
Then the alarm blared.
Brodie jolted awake—and so did the *war*.
“Get *off*—” I elbowed him in the ribs, scrambling out of bed before his sleep-heavy limbs could trap me again.
He groaned, rolling onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes. “Fuck’s sake, Hartley. It’s *six AM*.”
“And we’ve got matches.” I chucked his duffel at his head. “Move your ass.”
He caught it without looking. “Bossy.”
The hotel lobby smelled like burnt coffee and industrial-strength cleaner. Brodie slumped into the chair opposite me at breakfast, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth like he hadn’t just spent the night *wrapped around me*, while I stabbed at my fruit cup like it owed me money.
Coach Riggs whistled as he passed our table. “Look alive, boys. Sheffield’s team’s already warming up.”
Brodie smirked, stretching his arms behind his head. “Relax. We’ve got this.”
And *fuck* him—he was right.
The tournament gym was a cacophony of squeaking shoes and grunting athletes, the air thick with sweat and anticipation. But when Brodie and I stepped onto the mat for our respective matches, something *clicked*—like all those weeks of him grinding me into the wrestling room floor had *meant* something.
I was faster. Stronger. *Sharper*.
And Brodie?
He moved like a fucking *predator*—no wasted motion, no brute-force slams. Just calculated, lethal precision that left his opponents gasping.
Sheffield’s lightweight didn’t stand a chance. I pinned him in under a minute, his shoulders hitting the mat with a *thud* that echoed through the gym.
Across the room, Brodie’s match ended just as decisively—his hand raised in victory, his grin *feral* as he caught my eye.
Coach clapped me on the shoulder. “See? Told you pairing you two up would pay off.”
I didn’t answer.
Because Brodie was already stalking toward me, hissing, “Told you I’d make you *better*,” before shoving past me toward the locker room.
And the worst part?
He *had*.
That was the worst part—the undeniable, razor-edged truth of it. Brodie *had* made me better. Faster. Stronger. Every brutal pin, every humiliating grind, every second of his relentless dominance had honed me into something *sharp*. And the bastard knew it.
"You'd still be losing to Sheffield's B-team if it wasn't for me," Brodie taunted, stripping off his singlet with deliberate slowness, letting it *slap* against the locker room bench like a gauntlet. Sweat gleamed on his collarbones, his muscles flexing as he reached for his towel—always *performing*, always making sure I *looked*.
I chucked my mouthguard at his head. "And you'd still be a lumbering fuck without me teaching you how to *move*."
His grin was all teeth as he caught it mid-air. "Funny. Thought I was the one who pinned *you* every practice."
Coach's whistle cut through the tension like a chainsaw. "Enough!" He shouldered between us, his clipboard smacking Brodie's chest. "You two want to measure dicks, do it *off* my mat." His glare softened as he scanned the room. "Rest of you—state playoffs start in two weeks. Vexley, Hartley, Jennings—you're in. Don't screw it up."
Two weeks later, Brodie's singlet was *back* on my bed—reeking of sweat and victory, coiled like a fucking snake across my pillow. I snatched it up, my knuckles whitening around the damp fabric. "This *stays* on your side."
Brodie, sprawled across his own bed like a conquering king, didn't even glance up from his phone. "Relax. It's a souvenir." His smirk was audible. "Like the way you screamed when I put you in that half-nelson."
The singlet hit his face with a wet *thwack*. He peeled it off slowly, his nostrils flaring—not at the stench, but at the *challenge*. "Careful, Hartley." His voice dropped, rough as gravel. "Or I'll pin you *right* here."
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Try it, *mate*."
Brodie's grin widened. He rolled off the bed—slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the chase—and stalked toward me. The floorboards creaked under his weight. My pulse spiked.
Then—his phone buzzed.
A text. A curse. A muttered "*Fuck*—coach wants me."
He grabbed his duffel, shouldered past me—but not before his fingers dug into my hip, *claiming* one last touch. The door slammed behind him.
Silence.
I exhaled. Then grinned.
*Perfect.*
Brodie's singlet still dangled from my grip, reeking of salt and arrogance. I crumpled it tighter.
*Payback's a bitch.*
And I knew *exactly* how to serve it.
I rolled my shoulders in the locker room mirror, watching the straps dig into my delts. It smelled like industrial detergent instead of Brodie’s sweat—that was the *point*. I’d scrubbed every trace of him out, boiled the fabric until it was sterile. A neutered threat. A stolen crown.
And Brodie *noticed*.
The Aussie froze mid-lace, his fingers tangled in his shoestrings, eyes locked on the way the singlet clung to my hips. His nostrils flared—once—before his grin sharpened. **"Nice fit."** The words slithered across the tiles. **"Little loose in the crotch, though."**
I smirked, adjusting the strap over his my with deliberate slowness. **"Better than smelling like your gym bag."**
Brodie’s chuckle was dark as he stood, rolling his neck until it cracked. **"We’ll see."**
The mats were slick with sweat by the time Coach paired us up. I expected Brodie to come at me like a freight train—expected the taunt, the grind, the *heat* of him pressing close to whisper *mine* against my ear. But Brodie just circled me, silent, his gaze tracing the stolen singlet’s seams like he was memorizing the way it stretched across my chest.
Then—*action*.
Brodie’s hands clamped around my wrists like steel cuffs, slamming me into the mat so hard my teeth rattled. His breath was a hot, ragged snarl against my ear. **"You *washed* it."** Not a question. An accusation. His knee jammed between my thighs, pinning me in place as his hips rolled forward—deliberate, *punishing*—grinding his sweat into the fabric he’d marked as his. **"Fucking *disrespectful*."**
I laughed, breathless, twisting under him. **"Smelled like a dumpster behind a gym."** Another brutal shove of his hips, and the mat burned against my back. Brodie’s sweat seeped through the singlet, his scent branding me all over again. His teeth grazed my shoulder—*hard*—and my pulse spiked. **"*There*,"** he growled. **"Now you *smell right*."**
The room blurred at the edges, reduced to the heat of his body, the sting of his grip, the *claim* in every snap of his hips. His breath hitched when I arched against him—*challenging*, always *challenging*—and his fingers dug deeper into my skin. **"You *like* this,"** he hissed, lips dragging along my jaw. **"Like knowing everyone sees you wearing my shit, smelling like *me*—"**
Coach’s whistle sliced through the haze. **"Vexley! Hartley! Break it *up*!"**
Brodie didn’t move. Not until his thumb brushed the hollow of my throat—*possessive*—and he leaned down to murmur, **"Wait till I get you *alone*."** Then he wrenched himself away, leaving me gasping on the mat, his singlet sticking to my skin like a second layer of *him*.
The locker room was empty when I finally staggered in, my muscles screaming. Steam curled from the showers, but I barely made it three steps before Brodie’s arm hooked around my waist, yanking me into a stall. The door slammed behind us, his body caging me against the tile as water *pounded* down. **"*Now*,"** he growled, peeling the singlet off me with rough, impatient hands, **"we start over."**
His mouth crashed into mine—no taunt, no tease, just *heat*—and for once, I didn’t fight it. My hands fisted in his wet hair, dragging him closer, our bodies slotting together like they’d been made for this. Brodie’s fingers dug into my hips, lifting me until my legs wrapped around his waist, his cock grinding against mine through the thin fabric of our briefs. **"Fuck,"** he hissed, biting my lower lip, **"should’ve done this *weeks* ago."**
Then—reality.
I wrenched my mouth free, panting. **"Wait."** My palms flattened against his chest, holding him at bay. **"If this is just some fuck-buddy bullshit—"**
Brodie froze. His grip tightened, but his eyes—*fuck*, his *eyes*—were suddenly too intense, too *raw*. **"You *serious*?"** His voice dropped, rough as gravel. **"You think I grind my life into yours just to *get off*?"**
The water scalded my back. My throat burned worse. **"I don’t *know* what you—"**
He *moved*, pinning my wrists above my head, his forehead pressed to mine. **"Hartley."** My name was a vow between his teeth. **"This *lasts*."**
The confession punched through me—*real*, *undeniable*—before his mouth sealed over mine again, *claiming* the truth right out of my lungs.
And *god help me*—I believed him.
Brodie’s hands weren’t gentle when he spun me around, shoving me face-first into the shower wall. His teeth scraped the nape of my neck as his fingers dug into my hips, dragging me back onto him with a growl that vibrated through my bones. **“Fucking *mine*,”** he snarled, and then there was no air left in my lungs—just the brutal stretch of him, *in* me, splitting me open like he’d been born to ruin me.
It was *animal*. No finesse, no patience—just raw, grinding hunger. His cock was a *weapon*, thick and relentless, pistoning into me with a rhythm that left my knees buckling. Every thrust knocked a punched-out noise from my throat, every retreat dragged a whimper. His palm smacked the tile beside my head, his other hand gripping my hip so tight I’d bruise—*wanted* to bruise, just to see the marks he left in the morning.
**“Say it,”** Brodie demanded, his breath hot and ragged against my ear. His hips snapped forward, *deep*, and my vision whited out. **“Say you’re *mine*.”**
I choked on a laugh, ragged and broken. **“Fuck *you*—”**
He *moved*—wrenching me back by the hair, arching my spine until our sweat-slicked chests pressed together. **“Wrong answer.”** His hand slid down, fingers wrapping around my cock, *squeezing*—not enough to relieve the ache, just enough to remind me who held the leash. **“Try again.”**
The water pounded down, scalding and useless against the fever of him. I twisted, trying to buck him off, but Brodie just laughed—dark and delighted—and fucked me *harder*, his teeth sinking into my shoulder like a brand.
**“*Yours*,”** I gasped, the admission ripped from me like a surrender. **“Fuck—*yours*—”**
Brodie’s groan was pure victory. He hauled me upright, his arm banded across my chest, his other hand dragging my thigh up to hook over his forearm. The new angle was *obscene*—his cock driving into me at a depth that stole my voice, his breath hot against my temple as he murmured, **“Knew you’d break.”**
And then he *ruined* me.
No rhythm, no mercy—just raw, piston-hard thrusts that shoved me up the tile with every snap of his hips. His teeth found the tendon of my neck, biting down as his fingers dug into my thigh, spreading me wider. Water sluiced between us, slicking his abs where they slapped against my back, but nothing could drown out the filthy *sound* of him—the slap of skin, the choked noises I couldn’t swallow.
**“Look,”** he snarled, wrenching my chin toward the fogged-up mirror. **“Watch me wreck you.”**
And *fuck*, I did. Watched the way his biceps bulged as he manhandled me, the way my body swallowed him whole, how his hips stuttered when I clenched around him. His reflection was *feral*—lips peeled back from his teeth, eyes black with hunger—and the sight of it coiled something primal in my gut.
Brodie’s hand slid down my stomach, calloused fingers wrapping around my cock with a grip that bordered on *painful*. **“Come for me,”** he demanded, his thumb swiping over the head, smearing precome down my shaft. **“Do it *now*.”**
The command ripped through me like live wire. I came with a shout, back arching, nails scraping the tile as my climax tore through me—*violent*, *uncontrolled*. Brodie didn’t stop. If anything, he fucked me *harder*, chasing his own release with grunts that vibrated through my spine.
**“Gonna fill you up,”** he growled, hips slamming home one last time before he *stilled*, his cock pulsing inside me. **“Fuck—*take it*—”**
Heat flooded me, his grip on my thigh tightening possessively as he rocked his hips in shallow jerks, milking every last drop. His forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breath ragged against my skin—and for one suspended moment, we were *still*.
Then he laughed—dark, triumphant—and nipped my earlobe. **“Told you I’d get you alone.”**
I elbowed him in the ribs. **“Dick.”**
Brodie just grinned, pressing a kiss to the bite mark on my shoulder. **“*Yours*.”**