Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 13

I step inside the gym, scanning the crowd like a predator sizing up its favorite prey. There he is...Xander...already in the thick of it. Grey sweatpants riding just low enough to show the sharp V where his hips taper.

He’s shirtless, chest slick with sweat, muscles straining under inked skin, a goddamn exotic painting in motion. I’ve watched this before, more times than I’d admit even to myself, but this time I’m done watching on the sidelines.

I walk right up.

He’s got headphones in, lost in the rhythm of the clanging weights and his own breath. I reach out and grab his ass.

He drops the dumbbells to the ground and spins around fast, fists up and ready to throw. Then he sees me. His eyes flicker with confusion, surprise, maybe a little wariness. He peels the headphones down to his neck, glances around like he’s searching for an escape route that doesn’t exisst.

It’s been two days since I last saw him. Days that felt like hell without this… whatever the fuck this is between us.

I look down at that fading purple bruise on his chest, the mark I left last time. It’s nearly lost under all that ink. I need to fix that, make it real again. Mark him properly.

He finally speaks, voice rough with that unique kind of edge.

“I was wondering why the last couple of days felt so damn peaceful…” He pauses, then shoots me a sharp look. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d come watch you work from up close.”

His glare could burn holes, he's clearly pissed. That brand of quiet, simmering rage that somehow makes him more fuckable. His chest is still rising fast from the workout, muscles tight and gleaming with sweat, his skin flushed in the most edible way. He grabs a water bottle from his half-zipped gym bag, twists the cap, and downs it like it owes him something.

I watch his throat work, the way he tilts his head back, lips wrapped around the rim, gulping it down in steady pulls. A few stray droplets slip down his chin and land on his chest. I feel it in my spine. I probably look like I’m mentally undressing him, because when his gaze flicks to me, I can tell he knows exactly what’s playing out in my head.

He shakes his head. “Grow up.”

I shrug. “Not my fault you look like a walking wet dream.”

He ignores the comment, screws the lid back on the bottle, and then that switch flips. His face goes still. Eyes tired. Voice too calm.

“Seriously, Jax. This is harassment. It’s illegal.”

He runs a hand through his wet hair. It looks messier now, darker, curling at the ends. Fuck, I want to grab it, fist it, tilt his head back and—

“Leave me alone,” he says, quieter now. Like it’s a request. Like maybe it hurts to say it.

I step toward him. Just once. Testing. He shakes his head, a small motion, barely there....but he doesn’t back up.

That’s enough for me.

I reach out, run a slow finger over the waistband of those sweatpants, his boxer briefs, some labeled designer shit, are peeking out like an invitation.

He barely looks at me when he says, “We’re in public.”

I look at him. “So? You don’t strike me as the scared type. "

He exhales through his nose. “I’m not,” he says. “That’s not what this is about.”

I raise a brow, stepping just a little closer. Close enough to make him tense again. “Then what is it about?”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in since I walked in. “It’s about you not respecting my fucking boundaries,” he bites, eyes hard. “I’ve told you. More than once. I have zero intentions of getting mixed up with someone like you.”

That one lands. My gaze narrows. “ What do you mean by 'someone like me'. And who said anything about getting mixed up? All I want–”

He cuts me off, “..is to fuck me. You’ve made that painfully clear.”

He says it like he expects it to hit harder than it does.

I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off again.

“Has that ever actually worked on anyone before?” he snaps. “Your brooding insistence and your dirty little comments and that cocky mouth?”

I start to speak again.

“Don’t answer,” he says flatly. “I don’t give a fuck.”

His voice is clipped. Sharp. And underneath it...something else. Not heat. Not anger. Something heavier.

“It’s not gonna work on me,” he says. “I told you. I don’t bottom, Jax. Not for you, not for anyone. But you keep chasing like I’m some prize you think you’re owed.” He lets out a cold chuckle. “I wouldn’t let you fuck me if you were the last man on earth with a pulse and lube. So take your dick, your attitude, and your damn delusion, and shove all three where the sun doesn’t shine. " He says it hard, no hesitation.

I stare at him. Really stare. His cheeks are flushed, chest rising. He’s looking at me like he’s daring me to push again just so he can shove back harder.

“Jesus,” I murmur, narrowing my eyes, “you’re really out here giving this whole speech just to say you’re not gonna let me have you.”

He glares, jaw ticking.

“ Is that supposed to make me stop insisting? If so, you'll have to try a lot harder,” I add.

I give in, reach for his hair and grab the wet strands. He turns his face away, a gush of air escaping his slightly parted lips, shoulders rigid. His energy is changing though. Less fire. More resignation. Maybe it’s the adrenaline drop. Or the workout. Or the fact that he’s tired of this loop we keep circling.

Maybe it’s time I switch gears.

I shift, tone softening....kind of...not really. “Have lunch with me.”

That gets his attention.

His eyes snap to mine, thrown for a second. Like I just flipped the script without warning. Because I did...hell, I even surprised myself.

“What?”

“Lunch,” I repeat. “You, me....food. You eat, right? ”

He stares like I’ve grown a second head. For a beat, he's completely speechless.

Maybe I don’t need to run him down. Maybe I just need to let him stop running.

Before he can answer, some passing meathead mutters without looking, “Take your gay shit somewhere else.”

The words hang there like a lit match. And just like that, the temperature shifts.

Xander freezes. Then, like flipping a damn switch, he’s all heat and sharp lines again. He guides my hand off his hair, turns and raises his voice.

“You wanna try saying that to my face, asshole?”

Meathead stops. Of course he does. Big, dumb, and hopped up on protein powder and ego. He turns, walks back, chest puffed out like a parade balloon. Gets right in Xander’s face.

“I said,” the guy sneers, “why don’t you go suck each other off somewhere else?”

I almost roll my eyes.... boring.

Xander opens his mouth, about to respond....but I’ve already circled around the idiot. He doesn’t even register me until my boot connects clean behind his knees. His legs give out with a satisfying pop, and he crashes down to the mat, grunting in pain.