7

Arrick’s aftershave surrounds me like a sudden familiar haven, a solid shield of pure muscle and a beacon in the dark. That wave of cold turns to tingles and internal shakes of sheer relief, my body instantly slumping and falling forwards to lean into him as the adrenaline turns me into a mess of jellified uselessness.

“I swear if you don’t turn around and walk off right now, then you’ll be taking all meals from a tube, Dickhead.” Arrick snarls in that husky Carrero tone of the most perfect male voice I’ve ever known. My boy! Like familiar soothing music that just makes you whole. Bristling with aggression and dwarfing the other man with his sheer build of alpha intimidation in all his glory.

Arrick is hitting the six-foot-one mark, maybe more nowadays, and his build has gotten a lot wider and stronger since he matured and started professional fighting. He’s a vision of physical perfection that goes so well with the face of mal