For a moment, she just breathes deeply, the back of her lungs expanding against my chest, and I understand her well enough by now to know she’s truly thinking about what I’m saying.
A week in the bullpen with Sylvie has been like a month in any normal, non-prison relationship. Like six months in some relationships. And not just because we spend all day, every day together. It’s because every day here is life and death. Because we’re watching out for each other every single second. We can’t afford not to.
I feel like I’ve known her all my life.
“So, I have to tear out his throat, whoever he turns out to be. That’s what you’re saying?”
“Yes. Or bite into his jugular. Or stick your finger right through his eye. I’m not sure you could reach far enough into the brain to actually kill him, but that’ll incapacitate him, which will give you a chance to deal a death blow.”
“Holy shit that’s…revolting.” Sylvie cringes. “But it’s not like there’s a pretty way to die. Not in here, anyway.” She’s quiet for a few minutes. “Who do you think it’ll be? Out there with me. Against me.”
I’ve been trying to answer that question for days.
As near as I can tell, there are around a dozen rookies, other than Sylvie, and she could be paired against any of them. “The worst-case scenarios are Brack and Evan.”
Brack is big. My size. Sylvie’s speed and technique will even the playing field a bit where size is concerned, but I’ve seen Brack grapple. If he gets her on the ground, she’s in trouble. Which is why I keep pushing her to get out from under me on the mat.
“Evan worries me,” she admits in a whisper, and I can only nod. He’s among the smaller of the men, but he’s lightning-fast and his repertoire of martial arts moves is acres deep. He’ll make it to the next round. He may make it to the top. Hopefully she won’t have to face him until she’s been here a while.
Sylvie rolls over to face me and hooks her left leg over my hip. Pulling me close. “What about you?” she whispers, so the other inmates and the cameras can’t hear us talk strategy.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I want to believe that, with Roth out of commission. But we both know tomorrow could be it for either of us. Or both of us.”
“It won’t be.”
“You don’t know that.” She scoots up and presses her mouth to mine, at an angle, then she tugs at my lower lip with her teeth.
I groan as I kiss her back, trying not to think about the cameras. About all the jealous bastards listening from the other cells. Then my tongue finds hers, and there’s suddenly nothing else to think about. Until her hand slides down my chest, into my underwear, and she grips my cock like she owns it.
And oh, god, she does.
“Let’s say goodbye tonight. The right way. Just in case,” she whispers against the shell of my ear, and my cock jumps in her grip, even as the rest of me wants to protest.
“It’s bad luck to say goodbye. Like tempting fate.”
“Bullshit.” She sinks her teeth gently into my earlobe, then flicks her tongue against it with a hot, wet pressure. “If you die tomorrow and I have to come back here alone, I’m going to hate myself for spending the past week lying next to you, not touching you when I had the chance.”
If I die tomorrow, she’s going to have bigger problems than whether or not she and I had sex tonight. But she doesn’t need me to tell her that.
“What about the cameras?” I whisper, but I’m already sliding my hand up her side, beneath her shirt. Already cupping her breast, rubbing my thumb over her nipple. It pebbles instantly, and she presses her breast harder into my hand.
She’s going to win this argument. I know that even before she pulls her shirt off and says “Fuck the cameras.” Throwing my own words back at me. She’s going to win because whether or not this is my last chance, I can’t lie next to her for another night and not touch her.
I can’t.
“I knew you had a secret exhibitionist fantasy,” I whisper as I lift myself and slide her under me, shielding as much of her from the camera as I can, despite what I’ve just said.
She laughs, her wet hair spread out over the vinyl padding. “I really don’t. But I’m not thinking about the rest of those bastards right now. I’m only thinking about you.” She pulls me down for another kiss, and her hand finds my cock again. She strokes me in long, smooth motions until I’m moaning into her mouth. Until I feel like it’s been a year since I’ve had her, rather than a few days.
Until my balls tighten and I feel like I’m going to explode all over her hands.
“Slow down, Sylvie,” I beg her, my voice half-caught in my throat. “This isn’t where I want to be when I come.”
Her brows rise, giving her a sweet and innocent-sexy look that makes me want to tear her clothes off and fuck her until her skin flushes and her mouth gets that swollen, abused look from being kissed too hard. Until she can’t form words, other than my name.
“Where do you want to be when I make you come, Graham?” She starts to shimmy down the bed beneath me, licking her lips, and oh god, I want to let her do exactly what she’s promising with those wet, parted lips.
But I grab her arm to stop her.
“As amazing as that sounds, I can’t let you do that on camera.” Just thinking of the screenshots and viral clips that would circulate with my cock in her mouth is enough to make me murderously pissed, even as the thought of hitting the back of her throat makes me so hard I almost hurt.
I want to feel the wet warmth of her mouth. I want to look down and see her lips wrapped around me. But most of all, I want the privacy to do whatever the hell we please.
“I would give anything for a set of bedsheets, just so we could hide under them,” she says, echoing my wish with eerie timing.
“This isn’t quite the same, but…” I pluck her shirt from the floor and drape it over her breasts, then I stand and position myself in front of the camera while I slide her panties off, slowly enough to make her squirm. For a second, I enjoy the sight of her spread out in front of me, as well as the fact that from this position, I’m the only one who can see that.
Then I pull her to the edge of the narrow bed and drop onto my knees, hoping my head blocks the most pornographic shot.
“Wait.” She props herself on her elbows, clutching the shirt to her chest, and the sight of her looking down at me, with the V of her thighs on the periphery of my vision, is the single most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. “Why is it okay for you, but not for me?” she demands, but the breathless quality of her voice says she’s not really objecting.
“Because I don’t care what kind of footage they get of me.” And we both know that images of my head between her thighs won’t get half the clicks that shots of her mouth around my cock would. “So, lie back.” I have to taste her.
Sylvie relents, and I lick a long line from the bottom of her opening up to her clit, pausing for a dip inside that makes her clutch at my hair the way she clutched at my cock seconds before. I’m pleased, though not surprised to find her already wet and swollen, and I savor the first taste of her as she squirms beneath me.
“Mmm…” she breathes when I slide two fingers into her, arcing up in search of that slightly rougher patch inside her, as I circle her clit with my tongue, over and over. Her thighs tense, and I feel her fight to relax them as her pleasure builds. As she starts to thrust against my fingers. And when I look up, still stroking her while my thumb takes over for my tongue, I realize that a shot of her face in this moment, with desire drawn in the long line of her throat, the wet sheen of her lips, would be every bit as erotic as an image of her spread out on the bed, fully naked.
“Graham,” she moans. “Please…”
“How can I deny a woman with manners?” I whisper. Then I close my lips over her clit, sucking gently as I continue to pump into her.
“Oh, god,” she cries as she comes on my fingers. Against my tongue. As her hips thrust up and her body clench
es around me.
Dimly, I’m aware of the obscenities flying around the cellblock, as they listen to her pleasure, but I only have ears for her sounds right now. The slick, wet slide of my fingers inside her. The soft pant of her breathing. The scratch of her nails against the padding beneath us. She’s a symphony of lust, and it is all mine.
“I need you inside me,” she demands softly.
I’ve never been so willing to take an order. Or a woman.
I hook a hand behind her knees and turn her so that she’s lengthwise on the bed again, then I crawl over her body, tucking one of her legs around my hips, then the other.
“This is why I can’t concentrate when we grapple,” I whisper. “Your closed guard makes me hard every damn time.”
“Then you’re not thinking about the fight,” she teases. And she’s not wrong.
I push into her, and she clenches around me, still so wet and swollen from her orgasm that my own need is more of a demand at the moment.
“Fuck the cameras,” she repeats as she arches into my thrust.
“What?”
“Nothing. I mean, this is great, but right now, I really want to ride you like a fucking rollercoaster, without giving the world an X-rated show.”
Oh, fuck, I want that too. “How about a compromise? Put your shirt on.”
She looks intrigued as she pulls her tee over her head without sitting up, and every movement she makes seems to push me deeper inside her, a tease my cock can’t stand for much longer. When she’s covered from the waist up—both a relief and an utter fucking tragedy—I scoop her up until I’m sitting on my own heels with her straddling me. I angle us so that my back is to the camera, which means our voyeurs can see almost nothing of her, except her face.
“Ride me, Sylvie.” Then I lean back a little and give her free reign.
Her eyes light up, and she begins to move, bracing herself with a grip on my shoulders. And a warm, tight grip on my cock, buried deep inside her. Her hips pump in and out, squeezing me with every thrust in a circular motion so hot that I have to enjoy it from both angles. So I let my hands glide down her sides to grip her ass. Not directing her movement.
Experiencing it.
Her pace is criminally patient. Slow, thorough, and blisteringly hot, drawing sounds out of me with every stroke. I have to fight the selfish urge to speed her up, because the truth is that this is an exquisite torture. Pleasure and frustration with every tight, wet second.
I slide one hand beneath her shirt, and she’s damp with sweat, her abs flexing with every motion, breasts bouncing against me, through the material between us. I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, pinching it lightly, and she throws her head back, her eyes closed in concentration. I lean in and lick the length of her throat. Then I slide my hand into her hair and pull her down until I can claim her lips.
She groans into my mouth, and her rhythm picks up speed. She takes me deeper, grinds harder, until I can’t stand it. I can’t wait. I grab her hips and rock her hard against me, over and over, until she cries out, clenching around me.
I explode inside her, and she milks me, grinding out the last of her orgasm as I pump into her again and again.
“Damn,” she whispers, collapsing against my chest, still cradling me deep inside her warm, wet grip. “Now I can die happy.”
I take her chin and make her look at me. “Don’t you ever say that again. This wasn’t a goodbye, Sylvie. It was a fucking promise.”
12
SYLVIE
Fight day dawns earlier than most; the cell door opens a full half hour before sunrise, and for the first time since I arrived in the bullpen, though the men are all up and about, they don’t seem interested in me at all.
“I guess we should get up,” I whisper as more footsteps shuffle past our cell.
“We still have a few minutes,” Graham insists. “Let’s play a game.”
I know what he’s doing, and while cuddling in bed—rejecting the reality of this day—for a few extra minutes holds enormous appeal for me, it’s really just delaying the inevitable. Yet I can’t seem to make myself get up. “What game?”
“It’s an exercise in optimism. What’s the best thing about this place?”
“About the bullpen? Or zone one?”
“Both.”
“Um…” There is nothing good here. Nothing but Graham. But I can tell from the grin peeking around the corners of his mouth that that’s what he expects me to say. And he has earned the compliment. Still, predictability isn’t really my thing.
“No pillow creases,” I tell him.
His forehead furrows. “What?”
“The advantage to having no pillows is that we don’t wake up with those stupid pillow crease lines on our faces.”
“I thought you were going to say on-demand orgasms.”
“Yeah, that’s nice too. Oh!” I sit up, feigning excitement. “No line at the salon! Last night, my hair guy fit me in right away.”
“I think it’s more accurate to say that you fit him in.” His brows waggle suggestively, and I laugh. Then more footsteps stomp past in the aisle, and the reality of the day intrudes again.
We could both die tonight.
Graham and I get dressed and brush our teeth, and I fight crippling nerves while I stuff everything I own into my bag, except for the switchblade, which goes into my right pocket, as usual. We head out of A block, through the deserted atrium, and into the yard, where we find the cracked concrete surface already packed with bodies.
They’re all here for the same reason we are: UA will be posting today’s bracket any second.
Graham’s hand tightens around mine, the only visible sign that he’s as tense as I am. As we all are, with the exception of a few of the largest men who stand near the front, posturing. They’re top tier. Frontrunners, who have a chance to show off today, with Cohen Roth out of the picture.
Graham’s in the same position they are, but rather than glorying in it, he’s worrying about me. “Maybe they won’t schedule you today,” he whispers as we take up a position near the back of the crowd, reluctant to let ourselves be surrounded.
“You know they will. They’ll schedule you too. They wouldn’t be sub-licensing videos of us if they weren’t going to fight us today.”
“Hey.” Hardy pushes his way through the crowd and comes to a stop at Graham’s side. “You ready for this?” He’s trying to sound tough, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away.
“I fucking live for it,” Graham says. His lie sounds much more believable. Probably because his posturing for the masses has become second nature over the past few days.
Something flickers on the edge of my vision, and I turn to see that the entire top half of the exterior atrium wall—above the double doors—has lit up. It’s a huge screen, too high for anyone to reach.
For nearly a minute, the screen remains bright white and blank, while we all wait in tense silence. Then the pairings appear, separated into four tiers, each taking up a different quadrant of the screen. Tier one is in the top left corner. There are four rookie fights listed, which means eight out of the thirteen of us will be in the arena today.
I close my eyes, saying a silent prayer, though I’m not even sure what I’m praying for. Or to whom.
“Last bout in the tier.” Graham squeezes my hand. “Look.”
I open my eyes and look at the rookie listings more closely. Sure enough, I’ll be in the last one. And the name next to mine is…Lincoln Gray. I have no idea who that is, but I hear his name echoed in murmurs from the crowd.
“Link!” someone finally shouts. “Where the hell are you?”
“He’s over here.” Someone shoves a man toward me, and Hardy pushes him back before he can stumble into me. Lincoln shoves Hardy off, and we assess each other, while the crowd watches.
It could be worse. He’s big, but not huge. I’ve seen him train. He’s a boxer, which means that if I can get him on the ground, I’ll have a good s
hot.
Link’s gaze is hard as he eyes me. “It’s nothing personal, Wolfe. I didn’t come here to beat on women, but I didn’t come here to die either.”
I refrain from pointing out the irony in that statement coming from a death row inmate, because he’s basically apologizing for having to fight me. Then he turns to Graham. “You gonna be a bitch about this? Because you know bloody well it wasn’t my call.”
Graham shakes his head. “What happens on the sand stays on the sand. But you come near her outside of the arena, and I’ll fucking kill you.” Not that he’ll get that chance; only one of us will survive this fight. There are no lifelines in rookie matches.
I shove Graham over, irritation grinding my teeth together. “Hey!” I shout, and Link’s attention snaps back to me. Along with everyone else’s. “You’re dealing with me, not him.” The time for Graham to be seen as my protector is over. If I can’t stand on my own now, there’s no point in me even being here. “If you have something else to say, let’s hear it. If not, I’ll see you on the sand.”
“I’ve said my piece.” Link pushes off into the crowd. Slowly, everyone else turns back to the brackets.
“Fuck,” Hardy whispers. “Anderson, you’re headlining.”
Graham nods. He’s already seen. “They’re making a production of it.” His visibility has risen—both inside and outside the bullpen—because of me. Because of what he did to Cohen Roth.
“Which one’s Jack Clarke?” I ask, reading the name next to Graham’s on the screen.
“That ruddy redheaded bastard over there.” Hardy points toward the gap opening in the crowd, and I see him. Jack Clarke is one of the over-enthusiastic, preening assholes eager to supplant Cohen Roth—by going through Graham. “You can take him. No question,” Hardy says, loud enough for everyone to hear, and I realize this is probably being recorded, for the shit-talking footage they’ll show on the feeds. “Tonight, you’re the main event.”
Champion Page 12