7. Midnight Line
MIDNIGHT LINE
Iwoke with the sheets twisted around my calves, the hotel AC humming low and steady.
The king bed felt too wide on my side; the dent where Diego had lain earlier still visible in the mattress.
Moonlight sliced through a gap in the curtains and painted silver across the carpet.
He stood at the window, back to me, one hand braced on the frame.
Bare shoulders cut sharp against the glass, the line of his spine disappearing into the waistband of those loose gym shorts.
The bruise I'd left on his ribs yesterday stood out dark even in this light.
I sat up slow, the movement pulling at the knot in my thigh. My mouth tasted like stale coffee and regret. Or maybe just want. The room smelled of him—sweat, hotel soap, the faint bite of whatever liniment he'd rubbed on after our last session. It clung to the pillows too. To my skin.
He didn't turn. He just kept staring out at the empty parking lot like an answer lived down there among the faded lines.
"Promoter's got side bets running," he said, his voice gravel from disuse. "Against us. Thinks we'll crack before the qualifier. Thinks the old blood between us will do his work for him."
The words landed heavy. I swung my legs off the bed, feet hitting cool carpet. My pulse kicked up, a steady thump that matched the ache still lodged behind my balls from the van ride. From everything that had built since the showers. This wasn't just training anymore. Never had been.
I crossed the room. Each step dragged the silence tighter.
Diego's shoulders shifted when I stopped a foot behind him, close enough that the heat rolling off his back brushed my chest. My hands flexed at my sides.
This was stupid. Reckless. The kind of move that could end both our careers if the wrong eyes caught it.
But the promoter already had his money on the wrong outcome. Fuck him.
Diego turned before I could close the last inch.
His hand shot out, fingers threading into my hair at the nape, gripping hard enough to tilt my head.
That smirk ghosted across his mouth, scar pulling tight.
His eyes burned dark, reading every flicker across my face like he was scouting for a takedown.
"About damn time, straight boy." The words came rough, amused, certain. Then his mouth crashed into mine.
The kiss wasn't soft. It was teeth and hunger, his tongue pushing past my lips like he'd been waiting for permission I hadn't known I was giving.
Stubble scraped my chin, rough and real.
I tasted mint from the gum he'd chewed earlier, salt from the night air on his skin.
My hands came up on instinct, palms landing flat on his chest. Muscle jumped under my touch.
His grip in my hair tightened, angling me exactly where he wanted, and the low sound he made vibrated straight down my spine to my cock.
This wasn't me. I didn't kiss men. Didn't want the scrape of another fighter's jaw or the way his free hand clamped on my hip like ownership. But my body didn't care. Blood surged south so fast my head spun. My dick thickened against the front of my shorts, urgent and undeniable.
Diego broke the kiss just enough to speak against my mouth.
"Knew you'd taste like this. Been watching that mouth curse me for years.
" He nipped my lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue.
His hand slid from my hair to the back of my neck, thumb pressing into the muscle there, holding me steady while he took what he wanted.
I groaned into it. The sound shocked me, raw and needy.
My fingers dug into his pecs, feeling the steady hammer of his heart.
He walked me backward without breaking contact, until my shoulders hit the wall beside the window.
Cool drywall met my back. His body pinned me there, his thigh shoving between mine, the hard line of his erection grinding against my hip.
"Easy," he murmured, the same taunt from the cage, but thicker now. "Breathe through it. Let me show you."
His hand dropped between us, palm cupping me through the thin fabric.
Pressure and heat. My hips jerked forward before I could stop them.
He chuckled once, low and satisfied, then shoved my shorts down just enough to free my cock.
It sprang up heavy, already leaking at the tip.
Diego wrapped his fingers around the base without hesitation, calluses dragging up the underside in one firm stroke.
Pleasure punched through me. My head thunked back against the wall. "Fuck—Diego."
"That's it." He kept his mouth close, breath hot on my cheek as he worked me.
Steady pulls, thumb circling the head on every upstroke to spread the slick that kept leaking out.
The wet sound of skin on skin filled the quiet room, obscene against the AC's drone.
My balls drew up tight, aching with every twist of his wrist.
I reached for him, impulsive, shoving his shorts down his thighs.
His cock slapped against my stomach, thick and hot, veins standing out along the length.
Diego's breath stuttered when my palm closed around him.
He was bigger than I'd expected even after the showers, girth filling my grip, the head already slick.
I stroked him rough, matching his rhythm, learning the spots that made his thighs flex against mine.
He didn't let me lead. His free hand braced on the wall by my head, caging me in while he read every reaction.
Eyes locked on my face, he adjusted his grip, slowing when my knees threatened to give, speeding up when my abs clenched.
"Look at you. Taking it like you were made for my hand.
" The praise hit low in my gut, twisting with the shame that still flickered at the edges.
I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't be leaking all over his knuckles while his rival's cock pulsed in my fist.
But I did. God, I did.
Diego's hips rolled into my strokes, controlled but hungry.
Sweat beaded along his collarbone. I leaned in and licked it off without thinking, salt bursting across my tongue.
He growled, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine.
His rhythm faltered for half a second, then came back harder, fist flying over my shaft until my vision blurred.
The edge rushed up fast. My thighs shook.
I tried to warn him, but the words dissolved into a broken exhale.
Come spurted over his fingers, thick and hot, striping his wrist and my own stomach.
The release tore through me, wave after wave that left my lungs empty and my spine liquid.
Diego milked me through it, slowing but not stopping, drawing out every pulse until I was oversensitive and gasping.
He followed right after. His cock swelled in my grip, thighs clamping around my leg as he thrust once, twice.
Hot stripes painted my abs, mixing with mine, the scent of us sharp and male in the closed room.
His forehead dropped to mine, breath ragged against my lips.
For a moment we just stood there, sticky and spent, hearts hammering against each other.
Then he stepped back. Released me. The sudden absence of his heat made the AC feel like ice on my skin.
Diego wiped his hand on his shorts, pulled them up, and moved to the far side of the king bed without a word.
The mattress dipped as he stretched out, back turned to me.
I stayed against the wall for a few seconds, legs unsteady, chest still heaving.
My cock gave one last twitch at the sight of his shoulders, the marks my nails had left down one of them.
I cleaned up in the bathroom with a rough towel, then returned to my side of the bed. The sheets had cooled. I lay down, careful not to brush him, and stared at the ceiling until my pulse settled. Sleep came eventually, heavy and dreamless.
When I woke again, gray dawn light leaked around the curtains.
The bed was empty beside me. Diego's side looked untouched, like he'd never been there at all.
The window stood vacant. Only the faint scent of him on the pillow and the dried evidence still flaking on my stomach proved the night had happened.
I sat up, sheets pooling at my waist, and ran a hand over my face.
My lips felt bruised. My cock stirred at the memory of his grip, his mouth, the way he'd called me straight boy like a challenge and a promise at once.
The promoter's bets, the qualifier, the years of bad blood—all of it pressed in heavier now.
Had it changed anything? Or had I just handed him another way to break me?
The question sat there, unanswered, while the room stayed silent and the bed stayed cold.