The shower was ready and steam had filled the room. Faye stepped in first, the water cascading over her body. Dylan followed, pulling her into his arms, and I joined them. The three of us stood pressed together under the spray.
Our hands roamed, exploring and teasing, and the room filled with soft moans and whispered words of desire. Faye’s hands were everywhere, her touch electric, and I could feel the tension building, the need for more intensifying.
Dylan’s lips found mine, his kiss deep and hungry, and Faye slid her hands between us to wrap her fingers around my length. I groaned, my hips jerking forward, and she chuckled.
“Someone’s eager,” she teased, her hand moving in a slow, torturous rhythm.
“Someone’s a tease,” I countered.
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and she turned to Dylan, her lips capturing his in a fierce kiss. I watched, my heart pounding, as their tongues danced, their bodies pressing together. Then Faye turned back to me, her lips finding mine, and Dylan’s hands slid over my body, his touch sending shivers down my spine.
We didn’t stop at kissing; once all three of us came, we hurried to wash, then dressed for dinner and the fight before we were late for our reservation.
Dinner went exactlyhow one might expect in Vegas—loud, dark, good drinks, and great food. By the time we left, we were full, a little buzzed, and ready to watch some ass kicking. We took a rideshare to Mandalay Bay, got dropped near the entrance, and followed the crowd through the casino toward the arena.
Marcos had already told us to meet him backstage before the fights started, so we flashed our VIP passes and followed the signs marked CREDENTIALS.
He spotted us near the arena floor and waved us over. “There you are,” he greeted, holding out his hand for us to shake. “I wanted to introduce you to Keaton before the fight started.”
“Cool,” Dylan answered.
We followed him down a hallway until he stopped outside one of the locker rooms, knocked lightly, and opened the door partway. “Stafford.”
Keaton Stafford approached, hoodie on, hands wrapped, his attention sharp but not closed off.
“These are Jase and Dylan,” Marcos said, then turned toward Faye. “And this is Faye.”
Stafford looked at each of us. “Appreciate you coming out.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Good luck tonight.”
“Yeah,” Dylan added. “We’ll be watching.”
“That means a lot,” Stafford answered, then glanced at Marcos. “Thanks for bringing them.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” our agent responded. “We won’t keep you, but let’s grab a quick pic for socials, then you can get in the head space you need for the fight.”
Stafford nodded, and Dylan and I took a picture with him before he headed back inside.
Marcos turned toward us. “All right. Go grab your seats.”
We found our seats with time to spare, and the first few fights went by in a blur of punches, kicks, takedowns, and the crowd losing their minds over every clean hit.
Faye watched everything, even with a hand over her mouth.
When the announcer’s voice changed and the lights shifted, the whole place got louder.
The guy Stafford was fighting came out first, bouncing his big frame on his toes and soaking up the noise like it fed him. He pointed at the stands and ate up the boos and cheers with a huge grin on his face.
Faye’s brows lifted. “That Vega guys is feeling himself.”
“He wants people to think he’s in control,” I replied.
Then Stafford walked out—calmer, more focused, less hype. He walked straight down the ramp, eyes forward, shoulders loose.
They touched gloves and took a step back, then the bell rang.
Stafford came out ready, hands up by his cheeks, chin tucked like he was trying to give Vega as small a target as possible. Vega stayed on the outside, circling, snapping quick straight punches to see what Stafford would do.
