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I kiss her again, taking it slow this time, exploring her mouth, one hand resting beside her on the wall, the other tracing her curves, from the softness of her breast to the dip of her waist and the flare of her hip, her thigh, her pussy.
She moans when I stroke her, parting her folds, finding her small, hard clit and flicking my finger over it. Her body is trembling where it’s pressed to mine, and when I stroke lower, into her, she’s slick with arousal.
“It’s true,” I whisper, panting with need. “You’re wet for me.”
“I’m yours,” she whispers back and fuck, that’s what I’ve been dying to hear from her and now she’s said it I’m sure she doesn’t mean it. Not with my fingers deep inside her clenching pussy, pumping in and out.
I don’t wanna think anymore. Doubt, fear, worry about tomorrow. She’s with me right here, right now, and I can’t wait a second longer.
Pulling out my fingers, I grab my cock and guide it into her. I slip into her heat and a buzzing fills my ears. Sparks race up and down my spine. Her hand slips into mine and I lift it, pressing it to the wall over her head as I push deeper into her pussy.
We both shudder. I nip at her mouth as she mewls her pleasure, her hips rocking in small circles.
Holy fuck, I’m about to burst, my gut tightening so hard I wheeze.
“Pax…” I breathe. “Pax…”
In reply she slips her free hand round my back, lifts her leg higher around my thigh and takes me deeper. Before I can process the ratcheting up of pleasure, of pressure, she grabs a handful of my ass and hauls me against her. Her mouth seeks mine and we kiss, a hungry, desperate clash of tongues and lips and teeth.
She’s a vise around my cock, pressing in, tightening, rippling. She’s coming, her hand curling into a fist where I’m holding it against the wall.
The pressure breaks. My balls lift. My dick pulses in huge spasms that never seem to end, and I spill inside her, my hips jerking. Feels like every orgasm I’ve had in my life before her was a ghost, a pale reflection of this. As if I wasn’t living before. As if I’m dissolving into her, melding with her.
I have to tell her. Everything. Come what may.
How can I not when she’s a part of me?
***
Our limbs tangled together on my bed, her head on my shoulder and my arms around her, I tell her.
“I fought for the Hellfire Fighters since I turned sixteen. I was in local fights at first, and my cut when I won helped pay the bills after my foster mom got diagnosed with cancer and stopped working. It was that or go back into the system and there was no fucking way I was doing that.”
A shiver grips me, and she curls closer, stroking my bare chest. She says nothing, and that’s good because then I might lose my nerve and shut up.
“She passed quickly, once they knew what it was. Far too soon. Goddamn cancer.” I stop, draw a sharp breath. My throat clogs for a moment, when I remember my foster mom. She was kind. The kindest person I’d ever met—until Pax. “At least she didn’t suffer for long. That’s what everyone kept telling me.”
As if that helps with the crushing sorrow. Pax kisses the hollow of my throat, my collarbone. “I’m sorry.”
Yeah. So many years ago and the pain is still fresh.
“I was eighteen when she passed. Just barely. The fight club was my only family after that. For five years I trained and fought. It was my whole life. I won some fights, lost some. Won, mainly. Those were good times. I had friends. Markus. He was my best friend. Son of one of the bosses, he and I hit it off right away. We grilled on weekends, sometimes with the other guys from the club. We trained together, went out for drinks. Met his family, his girlfriend, his baby son.”
“Sounds like a great guy.”
The pressure in my chest becomes too fucking much and I shift, rolling onto my side, so that we’re face to face, our noses almost touching.
“I had some real good fights, won some money. Started thinking if there was more in life. Never had the time or the money to imagine it before. Something like leaving the fight club was never in the cards, not when the next fight was where the money for food and rent and the bills would come from. And then came a bad fight. Like, real bad.”
She places a feather-light kiss on my chin. “Why?”
“A new fighter came from Boston. The Bone Crusher, they call him. Clay the Bone Crusher.”
Her eyes widen. “You serious?”
“It’s his nickname in the ring.”
“Do you have one?”
