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He may have underestimated Clint a bit.
Maybe more than a little.
Scotland’s arm was currently pinned behind his back with Clint sitting on his ass and wiggling around like he was trying to hold on to a wild stallion. Scotland’s shoulder protested with each movement, but he was not tapping out.
“That’s fucking cheating,” Scotland ground out, trying and failing to get his arm free. Something in his back popped, making him go numb for a split second. Clint only writhed more, grinding his cock into Scotland’s ass. It probably seemed dirty as all hell to any onlookers, of which they had a few.
“Were you not ready, Sir? I’m sorry.” Clint cackled, shifting his grip on Scotland’s arm. He was strong as hell, with a grip that seemed unbreakable. “But now that you’re a little stuck and I’m a bit hard, let me tell another joke.”
It was the joke that had caught him off guard in the first place. Scotland had laughed, letting his fists sag for just a moment, and Clint had been on him with surprising agility and strength.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, momentarily blinding him as his chest was pushed harder into the padded floor of the ring. Scotland groaned as his shoulder ached from the angle. I’m not tapping out.
“What’s the difference between a cock and a hundred bucks?” asked Clint, dragging his hips and grinding his semi into Scotland’s ass. He let out a laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls as someone let out a whoop.
Is that Maxim? Ah, what the hell. “I dunno.” Scotland gritted his teeth, scraping the nails of his free hand against the mat.
“Someone is always down to blow a hundred bucks.” Clint cackled, even as Scotland bucked, finally sending Clint tumbling to the side. He was on his feet as fast as he could, dragging his arm across his forehead to wipe some of the sweat out of his eyes. By the time he recovered, Clint was sitting on his ass, his lips split in a wide grin as he leaned against the ropes.
“I’ve got a better one,” said Clint, holding out his glove and fist bumping the closest onlooker. It was Felix, which just wasn’t fair. He’d always been the sweetheart at the gym, helping everyone else work out, even if it meant neglecting his own routine. His eyes were glowing with mirth.
Things were definitely going differently than he’d imagined.
“A cock is a lot like life…hard all the time for no reason at all,” said Clint.
Fuck, he looked good when he smiled, with his cheeks flushed from exertion. It was hard not to think about pinning him and jerking his loose track pants off right in the middle of the ring.
Keep in control. He took a slow breath, but it didn’t stop his own chuckle that rose in his throat.
Maxim threw his head back in a laugh, leaning against the ropes. “I changed my mind about you, Clint. You can bring all your kinky friends down here anytime. Maybe you can convince Niki to get his ass here more often. He’s packed on a few pounds with Copley’s cooking.”
That sounded nice—not only the kinksters in the gym, but also the part about gaining a few pounds from cooking. In his case, Scotland had been overindulging since Clint had arrived. That’s what happened when he tried to seduce someone through their stomach.
“One more round,” said Clint, taking Scotland’s offered hand and getting back on his feet. “No headshots. Concussions can cause severe and lasting neuro damage.”
Yeah. That was the third time Clint had said that. “I’m not gonna punch you, Clint. I’m just letting you win to gain your confidence and get you ready for what comes next.”
“Oh.” Clint wiggled his eyebrows. “I like the sound of that.”
Too bad it was mostly a lie. Clint had definitely won the last round fair and square.
“Show me what you got,” said Scotland, raising his fists to just below eye level. Clint did the same, hunching his shoulders in an automatic move that made him look like a natural-born fighter.
Moving first, Scotland feinted left, only to swing his right arm out, landing a blow on Clint’s forearm. The wrap and gloves took most of the hit, but Clint would probably have a bruise later. I’ll kiss it better.
Clint hissed, taking a step away only to dive right back in, his shoulder low as he collided with Scotland’s gut. The move sent Scotland right into the ropes as the air was driven from his lungs. Scotland stumbled, reaching for the rope to right himself as Clint withdrew.
“You can fight,” said Scotland, still not quite sure he could believe it. The Clint that he’d been wanting all this time spent his days giving people advice and mixing drinks, not taking down people in the ring. What the hell? He couldn’t even chop wood, for Christ’s sake.
“I can brawl,” said Clint, shrugging before he raised his hands in an imitation of Scotland’s pose after he peeled himself off the ropes. “Why do you think there is hardly ever anyone stirring up shit at the club?”
“Yeah, but…” He distinctly remembered seeing Clint wield a baseball bat once, but he hadn’t thought much of it. There were props all over the club, but he couldn’t imagine Clint hitting anyone if the opportunity arose.
Then again, he seemed to have no issue hitting Scotland.
Clint smashed into him again at high speed, his arms open in a tackle as Scotland tried to recover. Maybe we should have worn mouthguards? Scotland’s head struck the mats as Clint’s weight hit him, the remaining air in his lungs whooshing out.
