Chapter 13
It’s fight night. After everything that went down with Scott and his dickhead of a boyfriend, I need this more than normal. I have far too much pent-up anger, frustration, and, if I’m honest, an overwhelming need to protect Scott coursing through me.
I’ve always protected him, but this whole situation with Derren has awoken something more carnal within me.
I hate to see him being treated so badly, but what I hate worse is him allowing it.
The funny, intelligent, overconfident guy I’ve always known disappears when it comes to him.
He’s losing himself, and I don’t know how to stop it.
How to make him see that this isn’t normal.
That he is perfect just the way he always has been.
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. Now is not the time to get complacent.
I need to focus on the here and now. I close my eyes, centre myself and smirk as I imagine my opponent with Derren’s head.
Electricity shoots through my skin with excitement; I’m gonna enjoy beating Derren’s face to a pulp.
I wait in the secluded corridor. The darkness settles me as I stare into the warehouse.
I crack my neck, listening to the chants and whoops as they welcome my competitor to the cage.
I blink, thinking about everything and nothing, focusing on the echoes of chaos as the noise rings out around the space, the atmosphere is electric.
I love the adrenaline coursing through every cell.
A slight kink flicks the corner of my mouth.
I know this guy is a harder opponent than the last one; it’s going to make for a really good fight.
All thoughts of Derren flee my mind when my opponent walks around the cage.
His arms extend as he plays to the crowd.
He’s an attractive fucker, too. But his attitude needs work.
Maybe I’ll knock it out of him during the fight, or at least give it a good go.
Stealing my resolve, I calm myself as my name is called.
The room erupts. I’m the home fighter. What can I say?
They fucking love me. I take long strides out of the corridor and into the smoky warehouse.
The smell of stale beer and testosterone coats the air, and I tilt my chin down and breathe it all in.
People’s fingers brush my arms as I walk by, but I don’t glance up.
I don’t look around. My hood pulled up, my shield until I enter the octagon.
I’m in the zone. I climb the steps into the cage.
When the clunk sounds behind me, I rip off my top and throw it over the side.
Screams and yells ring out as I stand and survey the room before fixing my gaze on my opponent.
The scowl and smugness radiate from him, and the way his jaw tenses under my glare makes the corners of my lips tick into a knowing smirk.
I step forward and listen to the ref as we stare each other down.
He’s slightly shorter than me, maybe six feet.
I stand to my full height, dipping my chin.
Sweat trickles down his brow, and his dark eyes fix on my own.
I glance at his toned chest and defined abs.
When I lift my head, I see the look he’s giving me, and I toss him a wink.
I raise my wrapped hands and tap his, turning and stepping to my side of the ring.
I crouch and leap into the air before shaking out my legs and arms. Finally, I crack my neck and turn to face him, and the bell rings.
He advances cautiously, but I step confidently towards him before ducking to the left and catching him with a jab, only to dance to the side of the octagon when he tries to retaliate.
I toss him another wink, and his scowl spreads across his features.
His brow creases, and the pink tinge to his neck and cheeks starts to deepen.
That’s it, pretty boy. Let’s see all that anger. Anger is so poetically beautiful; it shapes and taints everything. And then, once you accept it and allow it in, that, that second right there, is when you fuck up. And I’m gonna enjoy crucifying him when he does.
He lunges at me, and I jump at him. I bring my knee up and slam his head against it when he overshoots and stumbles past me. I jab at his ribs, turning to face him. His snarl is more prominent now, the redness crawls higher as his nostrils flare.
He throws a combo, missing me with the kick and first jab, skimming my jaw with an uppercut, but I counter, punching him in the ribs, making him bend.
I twist around him, coming up behind him and kick him in the ass, thrusting him forward so he stumbles and crashes to the canvas.
He scrambles, rolling over, but I allow him a few seconds’ grace to stand.
I huff a small laugh, and his eyes bug out of his head.
He knows better than to be wound up by an opponent.
But I saw the lust flash in his eyes and knew I could throw him off his game.
He lifts his guard and shakes his head. He focuses on me, and I grin.
This time, when he steps forward, throwing punches, I let him rain a few around my torso.
I get closer before throwing a few punches myself, making him grunt on impact.
I hit him in the ribs, and he coughs out a breath and flinches.
He falls to his knees, and I jump on his back, wrapping my arms around him.
I flip us over so I’m underneath him, but I have him in a tight hold.
My mouth close to his ear, I whisper, “I hope you fight like this in bed afterwards, too.”
A grunt slips from his lips as I thrust against him, wrapping him tighter in my grasp, but the bell rings.
I relax, releasing my grip and letting him climb to his feet.
I stare into his eyes as I confidently stand, smirking and turning my back on him.
Once I’m at the seat Jerry has for me on my side, I turn, dropping onto the stool, my gaze falls to his chest. It’s rising and falling, frustration radiating from him in pants.
I take a drink, but my eyes never fall from him, taunting him as I sit there unfazed.
Sometimes these fights are foreplay. Jerry chatters stats and strategy, but I have one of my own.
Beat him and take him to a hotel to fuck him senseless.
I don’t take them home. That’s too close, too personal.
I don’t want this side of things crashing into my daily life.
My business, my family, I keep everything separate.
I don’t have time for a relationship. It’s not something I’ve ever wanted, but I love fucking.
I have one rule—nut and bolt. It saves things from getting complicated when there’s really no need for it.
The bell rings, and I climb to my feet and step forward.
We both exchange jabs and knees, kicking out and dancing around the canvas.
It’s really a mating dance at this point.
I catch him in the jaw, and he stumbles a little, righting himself quickly.
Sweat coats his skin, his few tattoos flex on his toned body.
His brow and top lip glisten, and the slight trail of hair into his shorts holds small droplets that shine in the light above the cage.
I rush towards him, throwing a few punches before dropping low and punching into him, slamming my shoulder into his abdomen. He grunts, knocking the breath from those pretty pink lips that I’m gonna force my cock between later.
I keep my momentum and throw him over, crashing my weight down on top of him.
We grapple, fighting for dominance. His hips thrust and his back arches off the canvas.
I toss him over me, climbing to my feet, and he kicks out, dropping me to the mat, but he’s stunned.
I roll onto him, pinning him and getting in a few punches before the bell rings again.
I push off him and turn, heading back to my stool, flopping down onto it.
Jerry wipes my brow. My tanned skin glistens, my dark hair wet and sticking to my forehead as he wipes it away, tipping water into my mouth and onto my chest. I lick my lips and nod as Jerry slides my gum shield back in.
I stand and stretch out my spine, the crowd roars as people stamp their feet, chanting my name.
We step together, a clash, both wanting to be the top.
But I don’t bottom. So I slam my fist forward, crashing it into his mouth.
His lip splits as he tries to block the next shot, lifting his hands.
His hand clashes with mine as he blocks the shot and catches me with a blow to the ribs.
I grit my teeth as I counter. The crowd is yelling and jeering, and my body slams into his against the cage walls.
I hold him there, pinned, punching his torso before he wraps his arms around my waist, clinging to me.
“Winner tops,” he grunts out, and that’s all the motivation I need.
I lift my arms and use all my might to separate our sweaty bodies.
I extend my left arm, punching my right out under it, connecting with his ribs.
I step to the side and punch him in the temple.
He stumbles to the side. There’s a moment of recognition as his eyes glaze over, and he loses his footing, crashing to the ground.
But I’m already on him. My body wraps around his, and I stretch him out, wrapping my legs over his arm and holding him wide open as I punch him in the head.
After a few blows, the bell sounds, and I’m pulled off him, his eyes rolling as the ref checks him, standing between us, giving him space to get up.
He crawls to his knees and wobbles, almost falling back to the mat, but he steadies himself. I rest my hands on my knees, taking long, deep breaths, making the most of the recovery time while he struggles to his feet.