Cavin’s always controlled in the ring, methodical, but tonight there’s an edge to him, an aggression that goes beyond strategy. He’s punishing his opponent, every punch harder than it needs to be, faster.
Uh-oh.
He’s fighting angry… because of me.
The knowledge does something to me. Heat pools low in my belly, and my skin feels too tight, too hot. I watch the way his body moves—the flex of his shoulders, the blood on his knuckles. The way he dominates the space, the other man,everything.
And my fuckin’god, I want him.
It’s wrong, probably. He’s dangerous and violent, and he’s definitely going to punish me for this. But watching him like this, all powerful and primal andminein some possessive way I don’t fully understand… I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
The crowd presses close around me, and I’m grateful for it, grateful they can’t see the way I’m breathing too fast and the flush creeping up my chest. I clench my thighs together, but I’m aroused out of mymind.
I replay the spanking he gave me in the hallway before our first dinner. I remember how hot and bothered I was after, even when I hated him.
How I’d play it over and over in my mind when I touched myself.
Cavin lands a devastating combination, and his opponent goes down hard. The ref countseight, nine, ten…and it’s over.
Shite.
Cavin’s won. Of course he’s won.
He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t play to the crowd. Instead, his eyes find me immediately, laser-focused through the chaos.
He crooks one finger at me, then points toward the back hallway and his private changing room, and mouths one word:
Now.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
I am not prepared for this.
I’m not ready.
What have I done?
I have to face my husband and can’t even call Bridget. “Hey, so, I did this thing I knew would piss him off, and he’s mentioned a few times that he was going to punish me, and because I’m fucked in the head, I maybe want him to, but now that it’s time, I’m thinking I’m crazy, so…”
My heart kicks into overdrive.
I push through the crowd on shaking legs. My guard moves to follow, but Cavin must signal him off because he stops, letting me go alone.
The hallway is dimmer, quieter. The sounds of the ring fade behind me as I walk toward the changing room door. My hand trembles when I reach for the handle.
I’m scared.
I’m excited.
I’m so far gone for this man.
The changing room is small, sparse. Just a bench, some lockers, and a shower in the corner. It smells like sweat and leather and violence.
I wait.
Every second feels like an hour. I pace, then force myself to stand still. Sit on the bench, then stand again. My pulse is racing, my skin hypersensitive.
What’s he going to do?
