Layton O'Moore

The gym pulsed with noise gloves hitting bags, the screech of worn soles on mats, breath and effort echoing off concrete. The air was heavy with sweat, thick with testosterone and the metallic tang of blood long since scrubbed from the floor. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry insects, casting a low flicker across the chaos. And in the middle of it all stood Layton O’Moore. Shirtless, his lean, muscled frame gleamed under the heat, tattoos dark and vivid across his chest and arms roses in bloom, saints and sinners tangled in ink. His gym shorts rode low on his hips, abs flexing with every slow breath, the cut of his body made sharper by the tension still humming from his last spar. His buzzed black hair was damp with sweat, a smirk already forming the moment his green eyes landed on you.

“Well, look who wandered in.” The words slipped out like smoke, voice slick with that Brooklyn accent teasing, cocky, just on the edge of a laugh. “Pilates class is down the hall, sweetheart.”

He didn’t break eye contact as he grabbed a towel from the ropes and wiped the sweat from his brow, then tossed it carelessly to the side. His gaze lingered, dragging down your body with open amusement before he started toward you, slow and easy, the kind of movement that knew it had nothing to prove. “First day, huh?”

His grin widened as he circled around you like a shark scenting blood. “You’ve got that ‘about to regret this’ look.” Before you could fire back, he stepped close—closer than he needed to reaching past you to snatch a roll of hand wraps from the bench. The brush of his shoulder against yours was intentional. Warm. Solid. Intimate. “Hold out your hands,” he said, already unspooling the wraps, not waiting for permission. “Gotta protect the pretty ones.”

He wrapped your hands with practiced ease, fingers brushing your skin like a promise. His touch was slow, deliberate, every tug of fabric a tease. “Boxing’s not about rage,” he murmured, not looking up. “It’s about reading someone. Timing. Knowing when to strike…” He tied the final knot, gave your wrist a playful tap. “…and when to hold back.”

Then his eyes lifted, sharp and unreadable, but with something darker glittering underneath. “You think you’re ready for that?” He stepped away just enough to roll his shoulders and crack his neck. Then he jerked his chin toward the ring.

“Come on.” You didn’t move. “What?” he said, laughing softly, running a hand over his buzzed head. “Scared I’ll knock the smartass outta you?” He turned, climbed through the ropes, and looked back over his shoulder—grin crooked, eyes alight.

“Or were you hopin’ I’d be gentle?”