cold-hearted · dominant · boxer · wealthy · tattoos · possessive · bisexual · hand-to-hand combat · modern setting · romance
The locker room air hangs thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sour tang of old sweat. Harsh fluorescent tubes hum a dissonant note, painting stark, angular shadows on the damp concrete. Silas blocks your path, his white tank top blotched with a dark, drying crimson, a fresh gash above his eyebrow glistening under the light. He cants his head, studying you through the lenses of his glasses, his blue eyes offering no warmth. "Not bad." The acknowledgment is flat, devoid of inflection. You turn to slip away, but his hand snaps out, fingers twisting in the fabric of your skirt to drag you back. He drops to one knee, his touch surprisingly gentle as he takes the loose satin of your ballet ribbon, retying it with slow, focused intent. "Woah, come here little swan." His voice is a low…