14. Aftermath Room
AFTERMATH ROOM
The van doors slammed shut behind us in the underground lot, cutting off the last shouts from the press cordoned at the arena gates.
Security had kept the blackout tight—no cameras past the service entrance, no questions allowed.
My ears still rang from the arena roar, but the silence in the concrete stairwell felt heavier.
Diego walked half a step ahead, his duffel slung over one shoulder, the line of his back rigid under the thin hoodie.
I matched his pace, my knee protesting every downward step, the brace rubbing raw against sweat-dried skin.
We hit the third floor without speaking.
The hallway smelled of stale coffee and industrial carpet cleaner.
Our room key slid into the lock with a soft click that echoed too loud.
Inside, the king bed waited exactly as we'd left it this morning—sheets still rumpled from where I'd sat lacing my shoes, Diego's water bottle on the nightstand.
He dropped his bag by the dresser. I locked the door, twisted the deadbolt, then the chain for good measure.
The metallic rattle settled a feeling of certainty in me.
He turned first. Our eyes met across the narrow space between the bed and the window.
The arena lights had left faint red imprints on my retinas, but his face stood clear—jaw shadowed with stubble, a fresh split in his lower lip from the earlier scuffle with the promoter's guys.
My pulse kicked up, not from fear this time.
From want. From the need to erase every camera flash and ugly word with something that belonged only to us.
I crossed to him in three strides. My hands found his hips, palms pressing the damp fabric of his shorts.
No rush. I wanted this deliberate, every second earned.
His breath warmed my cheek as I leaned in, mouth brushing the corner of his in a tease before I took it fully.
The kiss started slow, lips parting, tongues meeting in a slide that tasted of salt and the faint mint gum he chewed between rounds.
He made a low sound in his throat, hands coming up to grip my shoulders, but he let me set the pace.
I walked him backward until his calves hit the mattress.
My fingers hooked under his hoodie, peeling it up and off.
Skin met air, carrying the sharp tang of his sweat mixed with the arena's rubber scent.
I traced the ridges of his abs with my thumbs, feeling the twitch of muscle under my touch.
His cock strained against his shorts already, thick outline pressing my thigh when I stepped closer.
I didn't grab for it. Instead I pushed him down onto the bed, following to straddle his hips, knees bracketing his ribs the way he'd mounted me in the cage yesterday.
Our mouths fused again, deeper now. I rocked against him once, letting the friction drag through our clothes.
His hips lifted to meet me, but I pinned them with my weight, controlling the grind.
This wasn't the frantic release from the hotel last time or the supply closet rush.
This felt like marking territory, like claiming the man who'd once tried to break me on the mat.
My hands mapped his chest, thumbs circling his nipples until they pebbled tight.
He arched under me, a rough exhale escaping into my mouth.
"Fuck, Cole." The words came gravelly, his fingers digging into my ass through my sweats.
I pulled back enough to yank my own shirt off, then shoved his shorts down his thighs.
His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, veins standing out along the shaft.
Precome beaded at the tip. I wrapped my fist around him, stroking slow from root to head, twisting at the top the way I'd learned he liked.
His thighs tensed beneath me, calves flexing.
I kept the rhythm measured, watching his face—the way his eyes hooded, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
He reached for my waistband, but I caught his wrist, pressing it to the pillow above his head. "My turn to lead." My voice came out steady, surprising me. No stammer this time. Just certainty.
Diego's gaze sharpened, that focused stare I'd seen in every spar.
He didn't fight the hold. Instead he spread his legs wider, inviting.
I released his wrist to strip my own sweats, kicking them aside.
Naked now, I settled between his thighs, our cocks sliding together, hot and slick.
I spat into my palm, wrapped both lengths in one grip, and stroked us in tandem.
The slide built slick and obscene, the wet sound filling the quiet room.
His free hand landed on my back, nails scraping down my spine in a line that left fire in its wake.
Pressure gathered low in my balls, but I held off, slowing my hand until he growled in frustration.
I wanted him desperate. Wanted this to mean more than stolen showers and midnight handjobs.
Leaning down, I licked a stripe up his throat, tasting the salt there, then bit gently at the tendon under his jaw.
His cock jerked in my fist, another bead of precome smearing between us.
I shifted lower, mouth trailing over his collarbone, down the center of his chest. His abs contracted under my tongue.
When I reached his cock, I took him in slow, lips stretching around the head, tongue pressing the underside.
The musk of him filled my nose—clean sweat, faint soap from the post-fight wipe-down.
I bobbed deeper, cheeks hollowing, one hand working what my mouth couldn't reach.
His fingers threaded into my hair, not forcing, just holding.
A groan tore from him, raw and unguarded.
"Like that. Yeah." The praise landed warm in my chest. I sucked harder, hollowing my cheeks, feeling him throb against my tongue. Saliva dripped down his shaft. My own cock ached untouched against the sheets, but I focused on him, on the way his thighs trembled around my shoulders.
He tugged me up before I could finish him.
Our mouths crashed together again, messier now, teeth clicking.
I grabbed the lube from the nightstand drawer— we'd stashed it there two nights ago like a secret.
Slicking my fingers, I circled his entrance, pressing one in slow while I kissed him through it.
He opened for me, hips canting up, a second finger joining the first. The tight heat gripped me, velvet and demanding.
I scissored gently, curling to find that spot that made his breath fracture.
"Inside me," he said against my lips. "Now."
I didn't argue. Rolling on a condom with shaking hands, I lined up and pushed in inch by inch.
The stretch burned sweet around my cock, his body yielding but gripping like it never wanted to let go.
When I bottomed out, balls pressed to his ass, we both stilled.
His eyes locked on mine, dark and open in a way they'd never been in the cage.
I started to move, deliberate thrusts that dragged over every sensitive inch.
My hips snapped, a statement: you're mine. This is ours.
Sweat slicked our skin where we joined. I braced one hand beside his head, the other wrapped around his cock, stroking in time with my thrusts.
The room filled with the slap of flesh, his low grunts, my harsher breaths.
Pleasure coiled tight at the base of my spine, but I held the edge, changing angles until his back bowed off the bed.
Diego's hand clamped on my hip, guiding me deeper. "Harder. I can take it."
I gave it to him, pace building until the bed frame creaked under us.
His cock pulsed in my fist, hot and leaking.
He came first, stripes painting his stomach and my knuckles, muscles clamping down around me in rhythmic pulses.
The sight, the feel, shoved me over. I buried deep, vision whiting out at the edges, a groan ripping from my throat.
We stayed locked like that, my weight braced on trembling arms. I pulled out careful, dealt with the condom, then collapsed beside him. Our legs tangled. His hand found my chest, palm flat over my heart. The silence stretched, but it didn't feel empty.
"I want more than this," he said after a minute. His voice stayed low and certain, his thumb tracing idle circles on my skin. "Not just rivalry. Not sneaking around after fights. I want you. For real. After the titles, after the bullshit clears."
The words sank in, settling warm where doubt used to live. I'd spent years defining myself against him—as a straight man, an enemy, a survivor. Now that line blurred into something better. Something that fit.
I turned my head, meeting his eyes in the dim light from the window. "Yeah. Me too. We'll figure the careers after tomorrow's press. Make it official once the sponsors can't yank the rug."
His mouth curved, not quite a smirk. Relief flickered across his face before he pulled me closer, arm draping heavy across my waist. The contact anchored me, solid and real amid the threats still waiting outside these walls.
We drifted like that, our bodies cooling, our breaths syncing.
The hardest rounds waited beyond this room—the promoter's lawyers, the federation review, the public fallout.
But sleep came easier knowing we'd face them together.
His fingers stayed curled against my side even as his eyes closed, a silent vow in the quiet dark.