Chapter 13 #4
Bate tilts her chin at Bailey, Thea, and Alexei, who are jumping up and down.
“You’ve found a good family here.” Her eyes drift over to the World Championship belt on Asher’s shoulder, not unlike the one that hung around her own waist decades ago.
Generations of wrestlers, a legacy encrusted in gold. “I’m proud of you, kid.”
Asher closes his eyes, letting the moment saturate his bones. “Thank you.” He swallows thickly. “For everything. I grew up wanting to be like you.”
Bate pats Asher on the cheek, her hand aged and rough beneath Asher’s jaw. “You became you. That is infinitely better.”
The party goes on, and somewhere along the way, a jeroboam of Drappier is cracked open.
The roster is too busy throwing back champagne to notice, but when Asher glances across the parking lot, there is a young blond boy leaning against the door.
When Asher’s eyes meet Caleb’s, Caleb winks.
It feels just as delightful as the weight of the belt resting on his shoulder.
Later, after kegs of beer and bottles of champagne run dry, Asher finally hits the showers.
All night, an itch blooms beneath his skin, a buzzing that demands his attention when the celebration fades away.
His end of the chain still dangles from his neck like a medal, a heady reminder of his victory.
He’s just set his championship belt down on a bench when there’s a flash of blue and Asher is crowded up against a wall, feet stumbling across the tiled floor. In one frantic motion, Caleb’s arms bracket his head.
“You’ve got a bit of—” is all Caleb gets out before he dives in, nipping at Asher’s jaw. When Caleb pulls back, there is some frosting clinging to the tip of his nose and a tsunami of heat floods through Asher’s veins, all the way down to his toes curling in his boots.
He lets his head get wrenched back, Caleb gripping his hair tightly, making his scalp prickle with pleasure.
It’s new, unlike all the times Caleb would run gentle fingers through it, but not unwelcome.
Still, the touch is familiar. There’s that same hint of something precious.
Versions of the same man in different lights.
A gasp falls from Asher’s lips. His eyes flutter shut, body immediately going nice and pliant in Caleb’s hands.
The noise makes Caleb hesitate. His hold softens a breath later as if something deep in his core remembers Asher’s head injury and still wants—needs—to hold him close. Keep him safe.
“Oh my God, fucking kiss me properly you fucker,” Asher grumbles and something shifts in Caleb’s eyes.
“Brat,” Caleb corrects, but complies. He hooks two fingers beneath Asher’s collar and draws him in, so close that Asher can see the ridge of every old scar on Caleb’s face.
Then Caleb crushes their mouths together, and it feels like the final confirmation of what Asher realizes is a long time coming.
He whimpers into Caleb’s mouth, body burning with want and begging for fuel.
It's hungry. Graceless. Fierce enough to bruise.
Just a messy slide of tongues and the sting of teeth.
Tucked right under the line of filthy. More a desperation for touch than anything else. A string pulled taut after time apart.
Caleb’s free hand cradles the back of Asher’s head, cushioning it from slamming back against the wall when his hips buck upward, trying to get friction against Caleb’s thigh.
It’s a small act, tender and minuscule in dizzying contrast to the way his other hand wraps tight against Asher’s neck.
His knuckles press painfully into the hollow of Asher’s throat, making it hard to suck in a breath, deliciously so.
It’s exactly how Asher felt in the ring with leather snug around his neck—safe yet thoroughly owned.
And somehow impossibly better. No longer for the airwaves. Asher wants to drown in Caleb’s touch.
“Fuck,” Asher swears when they break apart for air. “I want—you look—fuck!”
Caleb looks like a fallen angel. He’s a vision: hair a mess, wild and unruly, forehead glistening with a sheen of sweat. His eyes are intense, mouth a vivid pink.
Asher might die knowing he did that.
“Fuck,” Caleb agrees. He swallows audibly and, oh yeah, Asher is definitely going to die.
They blink at each other, panting as they catch their breaths. The momentary pause sends reality spiraling in. Not here. Not now. Not when anyone could walk in at any moment.
Clearing his throat, a deep red flush settles across Caleb’s cheeks. Asher doesn’t understand how this is the same man who was on the verge of choking him out two milliseconds ago, but finds himself dangerously endeared.
“The Colcord Hotel,” Caleb says without any further elaboration, sliding a hand over Asher’s.
Just like he did in the ring, the chain jangles as Caleb winds it up in a fist again.
His other hand pins Asher against the wall when his knees threaten to buckle.
“Bring the collar,” he adds before he kisses Asher again, long and deep like Asher’s a drop of rain in a desert and Caleb’s been scraping through a drought all his life.
For a split second, Caleb’s face shutters. “Or not.”
Then he is gone.
Asher looks down, peeling his fingers open. There, in the palm of his hand, lies a key card.