The morning session had transitioned from the floor to the standing bags, and the atmosphere in the gym had thickened into something suffocating. The air-conditioning hummed, a low, mechanical drone that failed to cool the heat radiating between the two men.
Frank stood before the heavy leather bag, his knuckles taped in white, his chest heaving. The white compression tank top was now translucent with sweat, clinging to every dip and curve of his torso. The cobalt shorts had ridden up so high they were little more than a suggestion of fabric against his flushed, trembling thighs.
Davis stood behind him, watching, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his shadow swallowing Frank's smaller frame.
"Your stance is garbage," Davis said, his voice a low, clinical grate. "You're leaning into the strike like you're begging for a counter. Square your hips. Align your center."
Frank tried to adjust, his hands trembling as he raised his gloves. He felt dizzy—not from the exertion, but from the proximity. He could feel the heat coming off Davis's body. He could smell the salt and the faint, woodsy scent of the man's skin.
"Still off," Davis muttered.
Suddenly, Frank felt two large, heavy hands wrap around his waist.
Frank's breath hitching was audible in the quiet gym. Davis's fingers were thick and calloused, digging into the soft flesh above Frank's hip bones. He pulled Frank back, his chest pressing briefly against Frank's sweaty shoulder blades. The contact was electric. Frank felt his stomach flip, a sharp, tingly heat radiating from where Davis's palms were anchored.
"Stay still," Davis commanded, his voice right next to Frank's ear.
Davis moved one hand from Frank's waist, sliding it slowly down the front of his stomach. He was checking the engagement of the abdominal muscles, his palm flat and firm against Frank's abs. He pushed down slightly, forcing Frank to tuck his pelvis.
"Tighten this," Davis said, his thumb brushing the very top of the waistband of the blue spandex. "If your core is soft, your punch is a pillow."
Frank couldn't breathe. Every nerve ending in his body was screaming, focused entirely on the heavy weight of Davis's hand on his belly. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his ribs, disappearing under Davis's thumb. He was so tense he felt like a guitar string about to snap.
"Now your base," Davis continued, seemingly oblivious to the way Frank's heart was trying to hammer its way out of his ribs.
Davis stepped around, dropping into a crouch in front of Frank. He reached out and gripped Frank's inner thighs, his hands massive against the pale, sweating skin. He shoved Frank's knees outward, widening his stance.
"Wider. Plant your heels," Davis muttered.
He moved his hands higher, his palms sliding up the length of Frank's legs until his pinky fingers were grazing the very edge of the cobalt fabric. Frank's legs were slightly shaking. The sensation of Davis's rough skin against his own was too much. It was a sensory overload that made Frank's head swim.
"Steady," Davis barked, looking up at Frank with those cold, dead eyes. "Why are you shaking, kid? We haven't even started the power sets."
"I'm... I'm not," Frank lied, his voice a wrecked whisper.
Davis sighed, a sound of pure professional irritation. He reached in, his hands moving between Frank's legs to grab the back of his calves and pull them into the correct alignment.
The movement was swift, but as Davis's hands passed through the narrow space between Frank's thighs, the tingling sensation became a physical shock. In a moment of pure, panicked reflex, Frank's legs snapped shut.
He clamped his thighs together with the strength of a professional kicker, trapping Davis's large, warm hands firmly between them.
The pressure forced Davis's knuckles directly against the bulge in the tight blue spandex.
The gym went deathly silent.
Frank let out a low, broken moan that he couldn't have suppressed if his life depended on it. His eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back as the contact—even through the fabric—sent a white-hot surge of pleasure through his entire body. He felt the hardness of Davis's rings, the heat of his skin, the sheer masculine power of the man's hands trapped against his most sensitive parts.
"Davis..." Frank whimpered, his fingers curling into the leather of the boxing bag for support. "You're... you're driving me crazy. Can't you tell? God, please..."
With a slow, deliberate strength, Davis pried his hands out from between Frank's locked thighs. He stood up slowly, towering over the panting, aroused boy. His expression hadn't changed by a single degree. He looked at Frank with the same clinical boredom he would use to look at a broken piece of equipment.
"You're letting your hormones dictate your heart rate," Davis said, his voice flat and icy. "That's a weakness, kid. A champion doesn't get distracted by a stray touch. You're behaving like a child who's never had a hand on him before."
"A child?" Frank snapped, his eyes flying open, bright with tears of frustration and longing. "I'm not a child! I'm standing right here! I'm telling you what I want! You're touching me and you're acting like you can't feel it! You're driving me out of my mind!"
Davis checked his stopwatch. "You have three minutes left on the bag. If you spend them crying, you can explain to your father why you're failing your first day."
Davis turned his back and began walking toward the exit of the gym, his stride steady and unbothered.
"I want to have sex with you!" Frank screamed at his retreating back, the words tearing out of his throat, raw and desperate. "I want you, Davis! I don't care if you're straight! I don't care about anything! Just sleep with me!"
Davis didn't even break his stride. He reached the heavy double doors, stepped through, and pulled them shut.
The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed through the massive, empty gym.
Frank was left alone, standing in his brother's tight blue shorts, his body trembling with a hunger he didn't know how to feed, staring at the closed door.