Chapter 24 Crown of Smoke #2
“Fuck, you feel good.” His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise. “So fucking tight. Like your body was made for this.”
“Move.” I braced harder against the locker. “Troy, I need you to move.”
He did, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a rhythm that was harder and faster than this morning, more desperate, like he needed this as much as I did.
Each thrust drove me forward against the locker, my cock trapped between my body and the cool metal, creating friction that made everything more intense. I could hear the slap of skin on skin, Troy's ragged breathing, my own sounds that I couldn't quite control.
“That's it, Daddy. Take my cock. Take everything I'm giving you.” His voice was rough in my ear, his chest pressed against my back. “You like this? Like getting fucked before your big fight? Like knowing you're going to walk out there with my come inside you?”
“Yes, fuck yes.” I pushed back to meet his thrusts, taking him deeper. “Want to feel you when I'm in that ring. Want to remember this.”
His hand came around and wrapped around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was overwhelming, pleasure building so fast I could barely breathe.
“You're going to come for me, Daddy. Going to come on my cock while I fuck you. And then I'm going to fill you up so deep you'll feel it for days.”
His rhythm picked up, harder and faster, his cock hitting my prostate on every stroke. The pressure built at the base of my spine, my balls drawing up tight, my whole body coiling with the need to come.
“Troy, I'm close.” My voice was barely recognizable. “I'm so fucking close.”
“Then come.” His hand tightened on my cock, stroking faster. “Come for me, Daddy. Show me how good I make you feel.”
My orgasm hit like a freight train, pleasure slamming through me in waves that made my vision white out. I came hard over his hand and against the locker, my ass clenching around his cock, pulling him deeper.
Troy followed seconds later with a groan that echoed in the small space. I felt him pulse inside me, felt the heat of his come filling me up, marking me from the inside out.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, both of us trying to process what had just happened.
When Troy finally pulled out, I felt empty and satisfied at the same time. Felt his come start to leak out and reached back to push it back in, not ready to lose it yet.
“Fuck, that's hot.” Troy's voice was wrecked. “Keep it in there, Daddy. Keep me inside you while you fight.”
“That's the plan.” I straightened slowly, my legs shaky, and pulled my shorts back up. The feel of his come inside me was strange and perfect, a reminder of what we'd just done.
Troy tucked himself back in and zipped up, looking just as wrecked as I felt. “That was supposed to be good luck.”
“Pretty sure it was.” I grabbed a towel and cleaned off my hand, tried to make myself presentable again. “Now get out there before someone comes looking for you.”
“You sure you're good?” He stepped closer, concern bleeding through the satisfaction. “You can still fight after that?”
“I'm better than good.” I kissed him, tasting sweat and want and the certainty that I was walking into that ring with a piece of him inside me. “Now go. I'll see you after I win this thing.”
He left with one last look over his shoulder, hungry and proud and mine in ways that made my chest tight.
I stood there for another minute, feeling his come shift inside me when I moved, feeling the pleasant ache that came from being thoroughly fucked. My legs were steadier now, my mind clearer, my body humming with satisfaction that felt like power.
The walk to the ring was going to feel different tonight. Every step would remind me of Troy on his knees. Every movement would remind me of his cock inside me. Every breath would carry the memory of what we'd just done.
The lights were bright when I stepped through the curtain, hot and harsh, turning the arena into a coliseum of noise and bodies and energy that crashed over me in waves.
I didn't let myself look for Troy in the crowd or let myself think about anything except the cage ahead and the man waiting inside it.
The champion was already there and pacing, loose and dangerous. He was twenty-eight years old with a record that spoke of dominance, fast hands, technical precision, the fighter who made older men look slow and predictable.
I climbed through the ropes. Mara stayed outside. The referee called us to the center for final instructions I barely heard.
We touched gloves. His eyes were cold and calculating, reading me the way I was reading him.
The bell rang.
He came out fast and tested me with a quick combination that I slipped. His footwork was clean with movements economical and no wasted energy.
I pressed forward and threw my jab. I felt it land on his guard. He countered with a low kick that buckled my lead leg slightly.
We circled and traded shots, feeling each other out.
Then he shifted levels and went for a takedown that I sprawled on. We grappled against the cage for thirty seconds before the referee separated us.
Round one went like that with fast exchanges and neither of us giving much. Both of us were working. By the time the bell rang, I was breathing hard and he looked fresh.
Not good.
Mara was on me immediately between rounds with water and ice. Her voice cut through the noise. “He's faster than you expected. You need to slow him down. Work the body. Make him carry your weight.”
I nodded and couldn't waste breath on words.
Round two started harder. He came out more aggressive and threw combinations that forced me to cover up. He landed a clean shot to my ribs that made pain flare hot and immediate.
I countered with a low kick and then another, targeting his lead leg and making him carry damage.
He adjusted and started checking my kicks. He threw his own that landed on my thigh hard enough to make me limp slightly.
Three minutes of violence passed with both of us landing and both of us taking damage. The crowd noise swelled with every exchange.
Round three was where he hurt me.
He caught me with an uppercut I didn't see coming. My head snapped back. Stars exploded behind my eyes. I stumbled.
He pressed forward and threw a combination to my head. I blocked most of it but took one shot clean on the temple that made my legs go weak.
The cage caught me and held me up. He came in for the finish.
I grabbed him and clinched up, buying time while my brain reset and my vision cleared. The referee warned us to work. I threw knees into his midsection, short and sharp. I heard him grunt.
We broke apart. I blinked blood out of my left eye and didn't remember getting cut but the warmth running down my face said otherwise.
The round ended. I made it back to my corner on instinct.
Mara's hands were on my face immediately. “Declan. Look at me.”
I focused on her. “I'm okay.”
“You're bleeding.” She worked on it with urgency and pressed something cold against the wound. “You need to finish this in the next two rounds or the doctor's going to stop it.”
“I'm finishing it.”
“Then fucking do it. Because right now you look like you're getting your ass kicked.”
She was right. I was losing. The champion was younger and faster and making me look old.
But I wasn't done yet.
Round four was a war. I changed tactics and started pressing forward instead of reacting. I made him deal with my weight and my pressure. I threw body shots that made him wince and low kicks that accumulated.
He tried to circle out. I cut him off and drove him into the cage. I worked him there with knees and short punches.
We broke. He threw a spinning back fist that I ducked under. My counter caught him clean on the jaw. His legs wobbled.
I pressed and threw everything I had with combination after combination. He covered up and backed away. He survived until the bell.
But I'd hurt him and finally put doubt in his eyes.
Round five was desperation with both of us exhausted, both bleeding, and both running on fumes and will.
He came out swinging and tried to finish me before I could finish him. He landed shots that made my vision swim and made my legs betray me.
I fired back and threw hooks that crashed into his guard. I threw body shots that stole his breath and low kicks that made him stumble.
We stood in the center trading violence with no defense, just offense, just the brutal mathematics of who could take more damage.
The crowd was screaming with deafening noise that became white static.
Thirty seconds left. I threw a cross that landed clean. His mouthguard flew. He staggered.
I followed with a hook, another cross, and a knee when he dropped his guard.
He went down.
The referee waved it off and the fight was over.
I'd won.
The realization hit delayed and filtered through exhaustion and blood loss and pain that made everything distant.
The referee raised my hand. Someone wrapped the championship belt around my waist. The crowd noise became a roar that shook the building.
I'd done it and won the title. I'd proved I still belonged at the top despite age and damage and everyone who'd said I was past my prime.
My eyes searched the crowd and looked for Troy, looked for the one person whose opinion actually mattered.
Then the lights went out.
Not flickering or dimming. Just gone. The entire arena plunged into darkness so complete I couldn't see my own hands.
Screaming started immediately with the panic that came from thousands of people losing their sense of safety all at once.
Then gunfire erupted.
The sound was unmistakable with sharp cracks cutting through the darkness. It was close and too fucking close.
My brain shifted gears and went from fighter mode to survival mode. Every instinct screamed at me to find Troy.
Emergency lights kicked on with dim red glow that turned everything into shadows and chaos. People were stampeding toward exits and crushing each other and screaming.