12. Final Spar
FINAL SPAR
The gym smelled of rubber mats and yesterday's sweat when we stepped onto the canvas.
Morning light sliced through the high windows, catching dust motes that drifted like tiny warnings.
Diego moved opposite me, gloves up, stance loose but ready.
No coach today. Just us and the clock on the wall ticking down to the qualifier tomorrow.
My knee felt solid under fresh tape, the brace left behind in the hotel room.
I needed this last round clean, full contact, no excuses.
We touched gloves. The leather met with a dull smack that echoed off the empty walls. Then we circled.
I threw first, a jab that glanced off his shoulder.
He answered with a leg kick that stung across my thigh, the impact blooming hot and immediate.
We traded like that, testing distance, reading each other's timing.
His eyes stayed locked on mine, dark and unreadable.
Every feint pulled my focus tighter. Sweat already prickled along my hairline.
He shot in low. I sprawled, but he powered through, driving his shoulder into my ribs.
The world tilted. My back hit the mat with a thud that rattled my teeth.
Diego flowed over me, knees pinning my hips, chest slamming down flush.
The weight of him pressed everywhere at once, heavy, familiar now in ways that twisted my gut.
His forearm braced beside my head, corded muscle flexing.
Our legs tangled, his thigh slotted firm between mine.
He didn't release the position. Instead he settled deeper, hips rolling once, deliberate.
The contact dragged longer than any drill required.
Heat built where our bodies met, unmistakable even through the damp fabric of our shorts.
My pulse kicked up. I bucked to escape, but the movement only ground us closer.
His breath fanned across my jaw, warm and steady.
"Again," I grunted when he finally eased off.
We reset. The second round opened faster.
I closed distance with a combo that forced him back against the fence.
Chain link rattled. He reversed, spinning me into the corner, and took me down hard.
Canvas rushed up. His body covered mine in the scramble, one arm snaking under my neck in a loose choke attempt.
He held the pin, chest to my back, longer than needed.
The press of his hips against my ass sent a spike of awareness straight through me. It was sharper, hungrier.
I tapped his arm. He released but stayed close a beat, his knee nudging my inner thigh as he rolled away. The separation left my skin buzzing.
Third round. I caught him mid-strike, ducking under a hook and driving forward.
My takedown landed clean. Diego hit the mat on his back.
I passed his guard, mounting high, knees digging into his sides.
My weight pinned him solid. For once I had the advantage, and I used it.
I leaned down, forearms braced on either side of his head, our faces inches apart.
Sweat dripped from my chin onto his collarbone.
His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed with heat.
My voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. "After tomorrow. Win or lose the belt, I want you to fuck me. Proper. No holding back. Want to feel every inch of you owning me until I can't think straight."
The words hung between us, raw and exposed. His chest rose sharper under mine. I felt the shift in his body, the way his thighs tensed beneath me. He didn't look away. Those dark eyes held steady, pupils blown wide.
Diego's mouth curved, not quite a smile but close enough to send fresh blood south. "You win tomorrow, I'll give it to you. All of it. Take you apart slow, then hard. Whatever you need. But only if you bring that same fire into the cage."
The promise landed like a hook to the ribs, stealing my air for a second.
Victory tomorrow meant more than a title shot now.
It meant his hands on me without the clock running, without the fear of cameras or promoters lurking.
My cock twitched against his stomach, trapped between us.
I held the pin a moment longer, letting the image settle deep.
Then I rolled off, offering a hand up. He took it, grip firm, calluses scraping mine.
We drilled two more exchanges. Each takedown stretched past the technique.
One ended with me on top again, his fingers digging into my waist longer than form demanded.
Another left him behind me in a rear clinch, hips flush, the hard line of him unmistakable against my ass.
No words this time. Just the drag of contact, the shared heat building until the air felt thick enough to choke on.
My skin burned everywhere we touched. The ache in my groin grew insistent, a steady throb that matched my pulse.
By the final bell my muscles screamed and my shorts tented obviously.
Diego looked no better, his own arousal evident in the damp fabric clinging to him.
We stood there, chests heaving, eyes locked across two feet of mat.
The promise from earlier echoed in my head, twisting with the leftover adrenaline.
Winning wasn't optional anymore. I needed what he'd offered.
Needed it enough to taste the want on every inhale.
"Enough," he said finally. His voice carried that gravel edge, the one that always unraveled me a little more. He stripped his gloves, tossing them toward the bench. "Separate showers. We push this now and we won't stop."
I nodded, throat tight. The idea of stepping under the spray with him, water cascading over bare skin, mouths crashing, hands everywhere, nearly short-circuited my brain.
But tomorrow loomed. The promoter's threats.
The leaked footage still circulating like poison.
We couldn't risk getting sloppy, not when everything rode on the qualifier.
He headed for the far end of the locker room.
I took the near stall, peeling off my soaked gear with hands that refused to steady.
Water hit my shoulders, hot and punishing.
I braced one palm on the tile, letting it pound down my back.
My cock stood rigid, untouched, veins prominent along the shaft.
The head flushed dark, already leaking. I wrapped my fingers around it once, then stopped.
No. Not like this. Not chasing release alone while the memory of his weight pinned me down.
The promise he'd made shifted everything.
What used to be quick, mechanical strokes in the dark after a bad fight now felt hollow.
Empty. I wanted his mouth on me. His hands guiding.
The stretch of him pushing inside, fulfilling what I'd whispered on the mat.
The internal war raged brief but fierce.
Part of me still recoiled at how completely I'd flipped, how a rival's touch had rewritten every certainty I'd carried for twenty-eight years.
The rest of me burned for it. Craved the vulnerability of letting him see me come apart completely.
I released myself and tilted my face into the spray.
The water stung my eyes. Tomorrow I'd fight like the promise depended on it.
Because it did. Diego would deliver if I won.
The thought anchored me, turned the ache into fuel instead of distraction.
I finished rinsing, skin still hypersensitive, every nerve singing with anticipation.
The weight of what waited after the bell pressed heavy but welcome now.
No more solo relief in sterile hotel showers.
Just us, after the win. His body against mine without barriers.
I shut off the water. The pipes groaned in the walls as his shower cut out too.
We dressed in silence from opposite sides of the room, the air charged with everything we weren't saying.
The hook of his promise curled tight in my gut as I pulled on fresh sweats.
Win tomorrow. Then he'd give me exactly what I'd asked for.
The thought followed me out into the parking lot, a quiet vow that refused to loosen its grip.