No Perfect Game (BL)

Logan's POV 

It's been days since Noah started his grueling practices, and he hasn't let up yet. 

Every morning, every evening, it's the same thing—extra laps, extra drills, extra everything. He watches me with that smug little smirk, his hazel eyes twinkling every time he sees me sweat and huff like a pup trying to keep up with the pack. 

I'd be pissed if I didn't know exactly what he's doing. He has to find a way to get his sick kicks out somehow and this is all part of the process: letting him work out his anger, letting him beat me down so I could chip away at that armor of his and, hopefully, get him to forgive me someday. 

Besides, I kind of enjoy it. 

Tough workouts always get my blood pumping, and there's nothing like the satisfying ache of muscles pushed to their limit. 

Except… 

"Go home and jerk off, Logan. I can see your outline through your pants." 

Noah's voice saying those words keeps replaying in my head, mocking me, teasing me, tempting me. 

He's always been a bit bossy, always had that sharp tongue, but now it's like he's weaponized it. And damn it, bossy Noah is hot. 

I've tried ignoring it, pushing those thoughts away, but it's impossible when he's right there every day, barking orders and looking like he stepped out of a fitness ad. His tight tank tops, those form-fitting shorts that hug his perfect ass—every detail is burned into my brain. 

Which is why I'm currently pacing my hotel room like a caged animal, strung out on adrenaline and lust. 

Fenrir isn't helping. My wolf is restless, growling low in my chest every time I think about Noah. He wants to chase, to claim, to remind our mate who he belongs to. 

But, fuck, "He's not ours anymore," I mutter aloud. Those three words have become such a mantra that I'm tempted to tattoo it on my skin.

Nevertheless, the image of Noah during today's evening practice won't leave me alone. The way his muscles rippled as he demonstrated a drill. The sheen of sweat on his skin. The way his voice dropped just slightly when he called out my name, all commanding and firm. 

I close my eyes, slipping a hand down… down until it reaches the waistband of my pants. My dick is so hard, it's pushing against my underwear. My body heats up as I imagine his hands on me, his lips brushing against mine, his nails dragging down my back. 

Nope. This is ridiculous. 

I yank my hand away from where it's starting to stroke, groaning in frustration. This isn't helping. Sitting here, obsessing over him, isn't going to fix anything. 

I need a distraction. 

I grab my keys, toss on a jacket, and head out. 

---

The club is called Fang & Whip, and it's one of those places you don't find unless you're looking for it. Tucked away in the outskirts of Eastvale, it's open to both supernaturals and humans so, not exactly legal.

Clubs like this aren't supposed to exist. It's not like supernatural and human societies aren't essentially integrated but there's still a lot of fear for non-humans and there's a lot of risk surrounding the mix of humans and supernaturals in a space full of drugs, alcohol and sex.

So many things could go wrong so, yeah, not exactly the place to be but I'll take my chances. Security does a good enough job at keeping everything in place and, most importantly, there are no phones and cameras allowed here, anonymity is everything and I'll take that to being hounded by fans in some regular club.

The neon sign above the entrance glows faintly, and I can already hear the bass thumping from inside as I hand my phone to the security at the door and, after a quick pat-down, I'm let in.

The atmosphere hits me like a wave. 

The air is thick with heat and the scent of mingling bodies. The dim lighting casts everything in shades of red and gold, and the music vibrates through the floorboards, a deep, pulsing beat that thrums in my chest. 

The crowd is as varied as it is intriguing: a vampire in a floor-length gown leans against a pillar, her fangs flashing as she laughs; a werewolf couple dances in the center of the floor, their bodies moving in perfect sync; a succubus man struts past me in nothing but latex underwear and a rope harness, his smirk daring anyone to look away. 

Fenrir growls low in appreciation. He might have been whining for his mate hours ago but I know what's really got us in stitches; we need to get off.

I head straight to the bar, needing a drink to take the edge off. 

"What'll it be?" the bartender asks, his horns curling around his head like a ram's. 

"Whiskey. Neat." 

He pours the drink with practiced efficiency, sliding it across the counter. I take a swig, letting the burn settle in my chest as I scan the room. Another half-naked couple walks past me.

That's when I notice her. 

She's seated across the room, her dark eyes locked on me with an intensity that sends a thrill down my spine. Vampire, I assume, judging by the way she carries herself—elegant, confident, predatory. 

Her dress clings to every curve, smoky eye shadow framing her gaze, bold red lipstick painting her smirk. 

I beckon a waiter, gesturing to her. "Send her a bottle of your best red." 

The waiter nods, and I watch as he approaches her, placing the bottle on the table and nodding back to me. 

Our eyes meet, and I raise my glass in silent acknowledgment. 

She smirks, picks up the bottle, and saunters over to me. 

"Buying me a drink?" she teases, sliding onto the stool beside me. "And here I thought chivalry was dead." 

"I like to keep things old school," I reply smoothly. "Do you like the wine?" 

She glances at the bottle, then back at me. "I'm more of a scotch girl myself, but wine is nice. Too bad I can't drink this on my own." 

"Why's that?" 

Her smirk deepens. "Because I want to end tonight in a scene, and while alcohol doesn't usually do it for me—vampire metabolism and whatnot—I don't want to risk being impaired." 

A scene. 

The word sends a flicker of heat through me. The word was essentially BDSM speak for consensual engagement in sexual activities and I'm all for that. I lean in slightly. "Who are you planning to play with?" 

"Hopefully you," she replies, her voice low and sultry. 

I smirk, taking her glass from her hand and knocking back the drink. "What's your name?" 

"Odessa," she replies then tilts her head. "And yours?" 

I set the empty glass on the counter and give her a name that isn't mine. "Ethan."

She raises her brow like she doesn't quite buy it but I don't give her time to dwell on it. "Dance with me," I say, standing and holding out a hand. 

She raises an eyebrow, her lips tugging upward in an amused smile. "What about my wine?" 

"Screw the bottle. The bartender can hold on to it. I'll get us an entire crate if you want. Just come dance with me." 

She laughs softly but takes my hand, letting me lead her to the dance floor. 

The music wraps around us as our bodies move together, her curves fitting perfectly against me. She presses back against my chest, grinding against me in time with the beat. 

I rest my head on her shoulder and sink into the feeling of her body against mine, of our hip's moving as one. I'm not looking for him, I swear I'm not looking for him. Neither am I thinking about him, so this isn't even a 'think about the devil' situation.

So someone explain to me why in the goddesses name Noah Bennett is here!?

Fenrir growls low in my chest. What is our mate doing in a place like this?

I don't even bother reminding him on the obvious because, dammit, Noah looks even sexier than he does in my wet dreams. He's shirtless, his chest wrapped in a leather harness that accentuates every line of his body, His hair is like a restless storm on his head, breezy in a sex hair kind of way. His shorts are obscenely short, and he's laughing at something a teammate of ours— Elliot?—yeah, that's definitely Elliot—is saying. 

My breath catches, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Forget the woman in my arms. Forget everything except the way Noah looks under the dim, golden lights. 

"Hey," Odessa murmurs, spinning in my arms and tilting my chin down so I'm looking at her. "You are so sexy."

That makes me incredibly happy. "And you are divine."

She smirks. "Silver tongued too." Her gaze turns scorching and she thumbs my bottom lip, her voice dropping to a whisper. "May I kiss you?" 

"You may." 

Her lips are soft, her kiss demanding. She's a good kisser, expertly leading the kiss and mewling softly when I take charge; this is how I find out she likes being put in her place which is perfect— I love a sub with some bite.

Still, even with her tongue exploring my mouth, my eyes drift back to the crowd. 

Noah's gaze locks onto mine just as mine locks onto his and his expression turns into one of pure shock.

It's so funny that I almost laugh into Odessa's mouth.

"You're distracted," she pulls back to say, her fingers trailing along the edge of my collar. "Thinking about someone?" 

Shit. Busted.

I wipe her lipstick from my lips with my thumb and lie smoothly, "Why would I need to think about anyone when I've got you right here?" 

Her laugh is soft, sultry. "Good answer. But you're kissing me and your mind isn't here." She leans in closer and tugs on my bottom lip with her teeth. "I don't mind, y'know? If your ex is here or something. But if you want to make someone jealous, you're going to have to do better than that."

Like I said, I love a sub with some bite. "And what would you advise?" I ask, wrapping my hand around her throat and squeezing carefully.

She smirks, tugging me closer by the belt of my pants. "Kiss me like you want to fuck me. Let's give them a show."