Part 26 (1/2)

Then she's speeding up, bouncing on me, moaning the loudest I've heard her moan. She's wild, thras.h.i.+ng, throwing her head back, clawing into my chest, leaving red scratches there.

”Jesus, Ca.s.s,” I whisper hoa.r.s.ely, so completely turned on by the sight of her f.u.c.king me like this.

”Wait for me,” she tells me through gritted teeth. She leans back a little, uses her legs to ride me, and starts to touch herself.

With her bikini pulled to the side I can see her, and G.o.d I want to lap at her, taste her, smell her.

I feel her tighten, feel her body grow more rigid, feel her bear down on me.

”Oh, s.h.i.+t,” she hisses, now tugging at her own nipple. ”f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k...”

She climaxes, mouth open in a silent scream, body shuddering, clenching tight onto me. I can't stay still any longer.

I sit up, clamp her to me, thrust my hips deep and hard into her again and again. She bites me on my shoulder, doesn't let go, screams onto me as I drive her through her o.r.g.a.s.m.

Her hand is still going, and so I keep going, and moments later I feel her tighten again, hear another guttural moan of pleasure pour out from her mouth.

I hold onto her hard, f.u.c.k her hard, and when I'm right at the edge I let myself go. My peak is so intense it almost hurts, a white-hot bliss that thrums through my body.

We climax together, shake and tense up, tighten and grip onto each other. And then we're coming down, slowing down, descending. She pushes me down against the chair, and falls on top of me, panting, sweating, shuddering.

We hold onto each other for so, so long.

I know, for certain, that I'll never let Ca.s.sie go.

Chapter Thirty.

Chance and I haven't talked in hours. Well, we've spoken to each other, but not talked.

The days flew by. We spent every waking minute together, made love a dozen times, went out together for food. Ignored our parents together.

Chance's mother seemed to recede, almost check-out of the situation. Dad knew not to bug us. I don't know if he suspects that Chance and I are having a relations.h.i.+p, but I really couldn't care less.

Chance is his usual self, apparently uncaring, unburdened by nerves or fear. The fight is tomorrow, and we haven't talked about that.

He's made jokes, tried to rile me up, told me he could f.u.c.k me six ways from Sunday, but he hasn't spoken about the fight.

I figure it's just a way of preparing himself. No need to psyche yourself up a or possibly out a beforehand.

We're staying in our hotel room tonight. I couldn't muster up the energy or enthusiasm to go out for dinner, so he went out and bought me fish and chips from a nearby famous chip shop.

I'm still angry at Dad, perhaps even more than I was before. The more I've thought about it, the more I realize that he was so stupid to borrow that money. We are a middle-cla.s.s family with some a.s.sets a a house, a car a and there he was, risking all of that.

And he wasn't just risking our livelihoods... he was risking our lives. He still is. This bet on Chance, this last gasp, is a longshot at best. Even I know that.

Oh, sure, Chance can fight. I've seen him fight, and I know how fast he is, how methodical he is when he's on the mat.

I've seen his training videos uploaded onto the internet by his coach, instructional tutorials for wannabe stay-at-home fighters.

I know he's got a body well more mature than it should be at his age. I know he's got unusual strength, endless stamina.

I know he's smart, too, even if he tries to deny it, even if he acts like he's not smart, even if he tries to goad me into calling him some dumb jock.

But he's going up against an ex-pro, and I don't want him to get hurt, to get seriously injured. Sometimes, I find myself thinking I'd rather take my chances on the run.

It sounds foolish, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. We're still young... we can still start new lives.

Could they really track us out here in Europe? I doubt it.

But then I remember Chance's mother... then I think about my cousins on Dad's side.

He's put so many people in danger, and they don't even know it. These loan sharks have no limits when money is owed. They'll go to any length.

A bit like a fighter in the cage. No losing, no revealing weaknesses. You go to the very end, until that last morsel of willpower is finally extinguished. At least, you go that far if you have to. You want the win before you get to that stage.

At first I thought fighting was just like any other sport. You play the game, cheat the rules where you can, come away with the win and then forget about it.

But it's not like that. It's not some basketball game where, in the end, the consequences of you winning or losing mean nothing in the long run, mean nothing past your professional pride.

Oh, sure, fans are either pleased or disappointed in spades, but that feeling fades, is ephemeral, and ultimately inconsequential.

So what else is there to play the game and win for? An athlete's pride? An athlete's way to appease the years and years of dedication to one singular thing?

But fighting is different. It's more personal, and the entire aim of the game is to injure your opponent enough that they submit.

Whether the injury is lasting or temporary is neither here nor there. The goal is to hurt somebody faster than they can hurt you back.

The lasting consequence of a fight, if you lose, is injury. If it's serious, that means months of rehab. If it's permanent, that means a life changed forever...

I've been watching loads of videos of Chance's opponent, Kaminski, on the internet. He's this huge, burly guy, very strong, very powerful.

I saw him kick a guy's s.h.i.+n, snap it in two. It looked like a rubber sword flopping about.

It was mortifying, not just in a body-horror sort of way, but in just how much people who fight for a living try to actually hurt each other.

Chance was quick to correct me on that point. He says n.o.body truly wants to injure an opponent, at least not permanently. Just, in order to secure the win, it is often a likely byproduct.

Byproduct! What an odd way to put it.

”Chance,” I say, leaning up, stroking his head in bed.

”Yeah?” he grunts. ”What is it?”

I sigh. ”Nothing. I just can't sleep.”