The Fighter's Prize

By: Jessa Kane

I try to get past Maxim’s guard, but he sidesteps, blocking me. “Scout!”

“Whit!” She shakes her head, calling to me over the riot of noise, chanting, screaming. “I’ll be all right! I’ll call you!”

Her eyes widen at something over my shoulder and I turn, just in time to find Maxim pounding out of the ring with me in his sights. Just like last night, the front of his shorts is tented. This time, however, there are millions of witnesses, including the crowd. And television. Not to mention whoever is filming this with their phones. So like…a billion. And yet, my sex is hot, melting like warm chocolate, tingles racing up and down my body, every inch of me craving his touch. His kiss. “Come to me, Whitney,” Maxim booms.

My legs are shaking.

If I take a step, I’m going to fall.

But I don’t have long to wait before I’m tossed over Maxim’s sweaty shoulder and carried off into the dark tunnel he exited from. Frantically, as the arena starts to disappear in our wake, I search Easton’s box for a sign of my sister and see their side by side silhouettes, but there is nothing I can do for Scout now.

Instinctively, I know there is going to be no speaking to Maxim until he’s had me.

He’s keyed up and shaking with adrenaline.

I am a fighter, kotik. There is an important contest tomorrow. We don’t allow any…spilling beforehand. Depriving oneself creates an edge. An anger.

How long has he gone without relief? Days? Weeks?


“Maxim—” My breathing sounds loud in my ears. “How long since you’ve, um…”

He spits his mouthpiece out onto the floor. “Month.”

Oh lord.

“And before that, you—”

“I have not had woman before, kotik. You will be my first and only.” We are almost to the end of the tunnel now. People are jumping out of Maxim’s way, rightfully gaping at the giant carrying the girl over his shoulder. “Usually after fight, I fuck my hand. Several times.”

Jesus. It’s going to be a long night.

I’m nervous. Of course I am. A six-foot-four beast with a month’s worth of frustration is about to take my virginity. But for some reason I’m not scared. For some reason I trust him not to hurt me. Maybe it’s the way my tears turned him soft last night. Or the fact that I slapped him with all my might and he only reacted with mild shock, zero anger. I don’t fully understand my reasons, but I find myself wanting tonight to happen.

Wanting to be the one who relieves him.

Eager to be the one, even.

“I hope you have a lot of c-condoms, then,” I whisper.

Maxim laughs. “No, kotik. I have none.”

I open my mouth to address that shiny piece of information, but we enter a room and I get distracted. From my upside down position, I can see we’re in a physical therapy room full of long, elevated leather-covered tables. The kind athletes sit on while trainers wrap their wrists, ankles. And several of those trainers are still in the room.

“OUT!” Maxim shouts.

The room is empty within ten seconds, the door slammed shut.

My back lands on one of the tables and Maxim climbs on top of me, making the wooden legs creak. There’s no hesitation in him. He’s already shoving down the waistband of his shiny, navy blue shorts, sweaty chest heaving, his eyes black with arousal. “I win fight. Now you open your legs for me, Whitney.”

I’m learning a lot about myself right now.

For instance, it doesn’t matter that I’m fiercely independent or that I’ve attended several marches for women’s rights. Whatever feminine mechanism inside me that is conditioned to submit to the alpha is alive and well and whimpering with lust. He came tonight to win, so he could have me here on this bed afterward. It drove him. And my thighs open automatically, begging for the chance to be his reward.

“Yes, Maxim,” I breathe, pulling down the straps of my dress with shaking hands. Letting his starving eyes feast on my bare breasts. My peaked nipples. “You were amazing tonight, baby. You earned me, didn’t you?”

“Da,” he pants, licking his lips. “Da, Whitney. I keep you now.”

I bite my lip and nod. “I’m your prize.”

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