Levi
Fight days always make me horny.
Maybe it’s the excess adrenaline, or the carb-loading the night before, or the anticipation of getting to fuck someone up in the ring, but it lights me up like nothing else.
So when I wake up with a raging boner tenting my sheets, it’s not a surprise.
The face that pops up in my mind’s eye as I wrap a loose hand around myself and start to stroke lazily—now that’s a little more unusual.
It’s certainly been a while since Dylan Long was the star of one of my jerk-off sessions.
His expression at the face-off is what comes to me first. Watching his tough, earnest face break composure when I suggested my little wager; pink rising to his cheeks, his eyes widening just enough that only I could tell, his jaw clenching like he was biting back a snarl.
Fuck. It was like a private gift, for my eyes only.
Do I think he’ll take me up on the offer? Probably not. He’s too serious for his own good, which means he’s easy to rankle, always has been. Mostly, it was a fun way to get in his head, a call-back to the childish teenage bets that became a staple of my first time in America.
But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that’s hoping he does. Because I know what happens when Dylan gets backed into a corner by me.
My fist tightens around my cock at the memory, my thumb brushing over the sensitive head and sending a hot shiver down my spine.
We were both eighteen, and it was the last time we wrestled before I flew back to my life in my tiny French town the next morning, thinking I might never come back.
We were neck-and-neck for the entire match, until I won on a technicality—a slipped foot and a split-second hesitation from Dylan was all the ref needed to call it, and leave Dylan seething with frustration.
He’d been a vision of teenage alpha fury in the locker room after the match, already the size of a tank even at that age, already totally incapable of chilling the fuck out.
He’d been pushing out that heavy, unusually sweet alpha scent of his like he was trying to choke me with it.
Not that I’d have been any more gracious, if I were in his position, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
Instead, I’d cornered him against his locker. I was riding high on the win, the final victory after a year of fierce rivalry, cocky and reckless and with nothing to lose, and I’d tossed out the challenge just to test how far I could push him.
“You know the deal, Long. You owe me. Big fight, big payment, no?”
“Go fuck yourself, asshole. I’ll do your sweaty laundry one last time if it means I never have to look at your ugly face again.”
I chuckled darkly, taking a step closer, getting in his face until his palms pressed flat against the lockers behind him. “That simply won’t do this time, Dylan. I fly home tomorrow, uh? No time. Besides, I think our final wager should be something a bit more… memorable, don’t you agree?”
He looked at me like he wanted to rip the smile right off my face, and for some reason that sent a shot of heat straight through me, the rage in his expression pressing all the right buttons in my young, arrogant alpha brain.
All I cared about was forcing his submission in whatever way would make his scent flare and those dark eyes cloud with the most potent anger.
“Name your price now or get out of my face,” he said, voice wavering.
I looked at his hands again, pressed against the lockers so hard they were white. Such big hands, like the rest of him. Vascular. Hands that had held me down against the mat more than once.
I knew the suggestion was insane, and that I was pushing things too far. But eighteen-year-olds with enough adrenaline flooding their veins to revive a small elephant don’t care about consequences.
“How about you put those big hands to good use?” I said before I could stop myself. In reality, my English was probably much more clunky, but the obnoxious meaning came through just the same. “Seeing as they’re not good for much else, it seems.”
“What?!” he spat, looking horrified. But his scent spiked even more thickly around us, caramel flooding my nostrils and making my alpha roar beneath my skin.
I grabbed my crotch for effect, already feeling my dick start to thicken from the thrill of playing with him like this. “You heard me, Long. A parting gift so we both leave knowing who is the real alpha.”
I fully expected him to take a swing at me. To drive his massive fist into my face and leave me with a bloody nose as a parting gift, instead of whatever over the top bullshit I was suggesting.
But he didn’t move. His fingers clawed against the lockers, but they stayed there.
His huge chest was heaving, the flush that had suddenly appeared on his cheeks traveling all the way down beneath the neck of his sweat-stained tank.
His face was unreadable, some clash of emotions warring behind his chestnut eyes.
“You’re a sick bastard, Bastien,” he said eventually, but he didn’t step away.
“And you are a man of your word, non?” Baiting him was too easy.
Too fun. But the sudden shift in the air felt like something beyond fun, the excitement pulsing through my veins morphing into heat as the possibility that Dylan was going to take this seriously became a reality. That maybe I wanted him to.
Slowly, his jaw set, he moved his hands away from the locker. I felt like every hair on my body was standing on end, goosebumps spreading across my back like wildfire.
My cock twitched violently when his hand ghosted over the front of my loose shorts, the cocky smirk melting off my face as the sobering reality of his touch washed over me.
I swallowed thickly when I glanced back up from his hand to find him looking at me intensely, his head tipped in a silent challenge: are you going to back down now, Bastien?
But I didn’t back down when his hand curled around my length through the thin fabric of my shorts, and I didn’t back down a few seconds later when he slipped it beneath my waistband and gripped me for real, his calloused hands making direct contact with the hot, throbbing hardness of my shaft.
I bit back a curse, not wanting to shatter the silence in case it snapped Dylan out of whatever madness had gripped us both. A hot shiver rolled down my spine as he began to stroke me, his palm rough and his fist tight as he pushed himself off the lockers to lean into me.
My thighs went weak as I rested one hand against the lockers beside Dylan’s head, pleasure pulsing through me with every twist of his fist. I realized that my scent was hanging in the air even more thickly than his now, and our faces were so close I could feel every one of his ragged breaths against my neck.
How was his alpha not tearing me apart? How was he keeping it together? The only reason I’d not turned absolutely feral was because of the stunning show of submission unfolding beneath my waistband.
His thumb swiped through the precum leaking out of my tip, smearing it down my overheated length in strokes that were rapidly picking up speed.
Dylan’s gaze was dark and focused, his jaw still tight where mine had slackened, but his scent had lost its competitive edge, the bitterness edged out by the unmistakable richness of his arousal.
When I looked down to watch the movement of his hand in my shorts, his knuckles pressing into the taut skin of my lower abdomen, my eyes fell on the bulge in the front of his.
“Putain,” I hissed, unable to hold the word back as my balls tightened, heat building in my core and threatening to explode under the relentless slide of his palm.
“Is this what you wanted, Bastien?” Dylan whispered against my ear, but if he meant it to sound like a taunt, it didn’t work. He sounded breathless and almost reverent, his voice breaking on a note of something dangerously close to desperation. And that’s what sent me over the edge.
“Yes—ah—”
My eyes squeezed shut as pleasure swelled outwards from the hot press of his hand, washing over me in shivering waves until I choked out a moan, knocking my forehead against his weakly.
The overwhelming alpha scent filling my nostrils only made me come harder, his submission sending a primal thrill through me as my release spurted over his hand
He didn’t stop until I was trembling from the overstimulation, pushing him away.
He withdrew his hand, using my tank to wipe my cum off his fingers, his face glistening with sweat and his lips plump and shining, and fuck—
My hips twitch into my fist, and I push the sheets off myself just before the first rope of cum shoots onto my stomach. I groan, shuddering, as my orgasm hits me. And it’s good, sure, but it’s not as good as that night six years ago.
The night that led me to start exploring if maybe there was more to sex than omegas—turned out there was, and turns out I’m more than happy to indulge in every flavor of dynamic and gender that’s open to me.
But I’ve always been chasing the high of being jerked off in a scummy school locker room by Dylan Long, and so far, no one has even come close.
—
The heavy bass of Dylan’s walk-on music vibrates through the carpeted floors of the venue and all the way to my chest, the familiar churn of excitement, anticipation and nervous energy swirling in my gut as I watch the curtain swing open from my shadowed position backstage.
The local crowd erupts as he appears, stepping into the glaring overhead lights and walking towards the ring without any of the bouncing theatrics a lot of fighters use to play up their confidence and mask their nerves.
No, Dylan walks slowly, deliberately, letting his massive size and muscle mass, impressive even hidden by his robe, do the talking for him.
Even from fifty yards away, I can feel the weight of his presence in the room.