The Fighter's Prize

His mouth moves over mine in a long, wet kiss, his lips trailing down to suck the sensitive skin of my throat, his tongue swirling in the hollow. “Angels made you, kotik. But I swear your pussy was designed by the devil.” His hips start to move faster, lust making his eyes feverish, bright. “Once you have it, you will spend rest of life craving more. Hard and aching. I already want it again.”

“It’s yours,” I whisper, running my palms up and down his flexing back. “Yours as many times as you need.”

With a groan, he falls forward and fucks me in earnest, frenzied like last night.

His snarls and grunts make beautiful masculine music against my ear, his hips slapping down against mine, his tight ball sack pressing to my bottom with every downward stroke. That fighter’s body of his is a heavy wall of muscle that gives no quarter, anchoring me to the mattress while he takes his pleasure, one of his hands coming up to wrap around my throat.

“Wet little kitten,” he grits out. “You squeeze me too tight. You make me fucking crazy.”

My intimate muscles begin to tighten again, bearing down so I can feel every ridge of his sex traveling up and back inside me. “But I just want to please you.”

His grip grows stricter around my neck and I love it. I love that I’m being punished for being too good, too tempting. I’m both an object of misery and a conduit to paradise. Praised and chastised, all at the same time. “You are greedy for my come,” he rasps. “Is that why you choke my cock, little girl? You want to have Daddy’s baby?”

A moan originates from deep inside me, raw and honest. It doesn’t even sound like me when it passes my lips. “Yes.”

Maxim bares his teeth, his features screwing up in a mask of pain. He buries that face in the curve of my neck and latches onto my earlobe, biting and sucking. “It was only matter of time once you matured and started tempting Daddy’s big dick.” His accent is the thickest I’ve heard it, slurred and horny and deep. “Someone was going to put my hot little girl flat on back. Had to make sure was me, da?”

I’m shaking.

The nerve endings in my feminine flesh are gathering together, preparing to disperse like a starburst, and I cry out, the sound cut off by the fighter’s grip around my throat.

“This is just for me, kotik. Otherwise legs stay closed.”

I nod, stutter through an agreement, my thighs beginning to tremble.

Maxim presses down more, bringing my knees up to my ears, his mighty hips bucking hard enough to make me scream. Struggle just a little. As much as I can beneath an unmovable object. Because the tide that rises is so swift, it sweeps me off the rocks and drags me out to sea and I sob and sob, the constrictions of my sex so intense they’re almost painful. The relief is not, though. It’s all-encompassing. It rewards me with a total slackening of my muscles. And all I can do is cling to my fighter’s heaving shoulders as he hits a jagged peak, hoarse calls of my name filling the room, violent tremors holding him in their grip.

Warm, sticky liquid squelches between us, spilling out onto my butt and thighs, the bedclothes. Just like last night, he seems to find a reserve of lust, deep within himself, and just when I think it’s over, he’s battering into me once again, his head thrown back to curse at the ceiling. Until finally he’s emptied himself and his heavy body goes boneless on top of mine, both of us sucking air into our lungs, sweat slicking every inch of our skin.

Maxim lifts his head and looks down at me, my heart swelling over the love in his eyes.

There’s so much affection and care radiating down at me that I’m completely unprepared for the thunderous frown that gathers on his face.

“Hold on, Whitney. I just think of something.” He glances over at the discarded script. “Do you kiss boys in this play?”

6

Maxim

My question turns Whitney’s cheeks pink. She opens her mouth and closes it again.

And I have my answer.

She thinks to kiss boys now that she is mine?

“It’s acting, Maxim. There are no feelings involved.”

My laughter booms through the bedroom, but there is no humor involved. In fact, there is now a vise around my skull and it’s cranking tighter, tighter. I think of another pair of arms beside my own around Whitney, another mouth descending toward hers, and I tear myself away from her sweet body with a choked sound, beginning to pace the floor. “You will no longer do this. Acting is over.”

She jackknifes on the bed. “What? No it isn’t.”

“Oh yes it is. You would have me commit murder against every one of your costars?”