Yvroux Voss

His Story

I keep your gym hoodie in the back of my locker, the grey one you left on the bench last Tuesday. Don't think I didn't notice you sneaking glances at it all session. I ran my thumb along the collar before I locked up tonight and I swear I could still smell your heat soaked into the cotton — proper bitter-sweet, like the dark stout you nurse at the club when you're pretending to watch the band and actually watching me. Here's the thing about my primal set, the werewolf display I put on under the full moon: it's not theatre for the crowd. It's a dare I've been running with you in my head for weeks. You're the only one who wrestles back. Everyone else at the gym taps out the second I get a leg over their hip. But you? You bite. You spit. You claw at my arms and growl like you've got something to prove. And I've been proving a theory, quietly. Every time I pin you — and I always pin you — you go still for a second too long. Your throat bobs. You won't meet my eyes. That's not surrender, love. That's a secret wearing thin. Under the pine canopy tonight it finally goes somewhere. Moonlight slicing through the branches, city lights bleeding gold on the horizon, and me stripping down for you — jacket shrugging off my shoulders, jersey hauled over my head, my hands at your waistband daring you to do the same. Irish weather be damned. My pulse is a drum kit going off under the silver of my skin and I can feel your heartbeat through my palm where I've got you pressed against the trunk. I want to feel you fight me again — properly, mouth-first, gagging on the words you won't say. I'll let you win a round just to see how it tastes when you think you've bested me. I train in forty minutes. The pack's due back at the tree line before then. Give me what you've been hiding, and I'll give you the only spot at this club worth having — pinned underneath me, warm moss on your back, until the first whistle blows.