But not today.
Today I say fuck the devil. To hell with this shit.
The only thing I’m going down for is to please her, to drink from her sweet pussy. I’m not taking a dive so Marconi can keep filling his money bags, using good people like waste paper.
I’ll win for her. I’ll win her prize and then I’ll win her curves, I’ll make them so dirty and then lick them clean. I’ll fill her with my seed and we’ll be something I know I’ve never had either.
A family.
I know she feels hurt. I can’t disguise my disappointment at her being here, having to meet her like this. Having her see what I have to do next.
But it is what it is, and I know I’d walk across broken glass for her. Throwing a rigged fight, all the trouble that it will bring, is it worth it?
Is she worth it?
Hell yes. That’s not even the question in my mind. The question is: can I wait until the fourth round?
I don’t have to wait long. My mind’s made up for me, and they bring in the next opponent. He’s been given the drill and gives me a knowing little nod which I ignore.
I know Marconi’s watching, from his office somewhere, there’s CCTV cameras all over the place. He’s always watching.
But tonight, he’s in for a front row seat of something special. The night his little game gets thrown back in his face.
I don’t even know your name yet, but tonight. I’m fighting for us.
You’re not alone anymore.
I’m here now, and I’m gonna take you away from all this badness, take us both someplace special.
I give the shit head I’m about to fight the nod he’s been waiting for, the little tell that we’re all on the same page.
The page I just ripped out of the Marconi book and tore to shreds.
CHAPTER THREE
Roxy
The swelling of my own arousal deep inside me almost hurts. I’m so nervous, scared for him, but at the same time I’m so fucking turned on, wet as water just looking at him. His eyes go as hard as I know his cock is when he sees his opponent.
I feel something shift in me when we lock eyes again, and I can tell his mind’s made up about something.
Something I desperately hope involves me, I’m no expert when it comes to men, far from it. And this is about as pure man as you can get.
If his eyes aren’t lying, if this feeling inside is the same for him as it is for me, I know I’m in a hell of a lot more trouble than just trying to raise a few grand in a hurry.
If I had any doubts about his intentions, they disappear when he looks at me next, straight after eyeballing his next opponent.
He mouths the single word, mine.
And I know I am. I just know I’ll be his.
No wishing, no wondering. Here’s a man who knows what he wants and he’s just spelled it out for me.
Jesus… this is really happening.
I feel myself quaking again, my pussy aching for him as I feel another line of moisture escape me.
The sight of him tensing, flexing and then loosening himself, ready for his next fight.
His ample package moving freely under his shorts, the outline of his cock clear, seeming like it only wants to move for me, like his whole body is suddenly just there for me.
A smaller man in a striped shirt, the quintessential referee figure moves into the ring, between the two men, which seems to bring my fighter back to earth.
“What’s his name?” I ask the bookie, who's elbowing past me, stepping on my toes and wheezing to get as close to the ringside action as he can.
“Your man? Yellow…” he murmurs roughly.
I feel my jaw tightening, irritated that these men are all such pigs.
I know my man wouldn’t treat anyone so bad.
But what if he’s got a girl already? What if he’s married?
“Is he married?” I hear myself blurting out, making the bookie grin before heaving a dry laugh which quickly turns into a hacking cough.
“Names Dillon, sweet cheeks. But don’t get your hopes up… I’m sure he’d rather a girl whose hole he could find without a search party…No… he’s not taken,” he sneers, turning purple as he coughs some more, moving away from me as I’m pushed back by the surge of testosterone-fueled men, itching to see their man in action.
But not as itchy as I am for him.
Not in the same way.
I feel other eyes on me too. But one pair of eyes far more intense than the rest. Eyes like a snake’s, cold and distant, but always waiting to strike.
I shiver with my own warmth for Dillon, glad I know something more about him for now and hugging my elbows, I’m suddenly grateful I can’t see a whole lot of the action.
It’s going to be horrible.
But I shiver too, from the sensation of somebody watching me. I cast my own eyes around, the memory of Dillon’s look so fresh in my mind, makes me feel confused why I’d suddenly feel so uncomfortable.
Wondering who else could possibly be watching me, and why.
Before I have the chance to wonder any longer the first cheer goes up and through a gap in the shifting crowd I can see Dillon taking his first punch.
It sickens me, I can’t watch.
There’s more cheering which gradually turns to shouting and name calling. Finally, there’s booing and I open my eyes, surging through the crowd to see what’s happening.
Dillon’s moving out of the way of every move his opponent makes, dancing like a professional boxer, but not hitting anything or anyone.
I feel my heart leap when I see him unhurt, seeing his fine body in action like this makes me want to rush into the ring and straight into his arms.
The crowd’s not happy though, lots of money is riding on the fight,
