Across the canvas, Nick Bruin moves like he owns the space. Lavinia clings to his shoulders from behind; his hand curves around her neck and he drags her down, catching her mouth in a hard, unrelenting kiss. When he releases her, she holds his chin in between her fingertips and says something to him that, even from up here, is unmistakable.
“End him.”
The bell rings.
They meet in the center like thunder, fists flying, no feeling out, just war. Killian’s faster, snapping jabs that split Nick’s brow early. Nick absorbs them, grins bloody, and answers with hooks that rattle Killian’s guard. They trade in the pocket, brutal, neither giving ground. Blood sprays. The crowd is feral.
Up on the balcony, the King’s hand moves.
His fingers slip under the hem of my skirt, gliding up the inside of my thigh. I freeze, breath catching, but I don’t stop him. Don’t pull away. He finds the edge of my panties, pushes them aside, and traces the piercing at my clit with one fingertip. A light tug, then soft. Heat floods me.
Below, Killian lands a punch that staggers Nick. Nick answers with an uppercut that snaps Killian’s head back. The King tugs the ring again, harder, then slides one finger inside me. I clench around him involuntarily, hips shifting just enough to take more.
He adds a second finger, curling them, thrusting at a steady, merciless pace. His thumb circles my clit, flicking the piercing on every upstroke.
I’m overheating, skin flushed, pulse pounding in my ears louder than the crowd. One of my hands grips the armrest, nails digging into leather, the other curls into the King’s shirt. Shoving my face into his chest, I take a deep breath.
Screams from below draw my attention back down to the ring. The fight has turned savage, both men bleeding, swinging wildly, too evenly matched for either to fall clean. I glance over at Sy. He’s focused on the match, but doesn’t seem worried. Damon and Hunterabandon their seats, beers forgotten, to hang over the railing for a closer look.
The King’s fingers drive deeper, curling just right while his thumb presses and circles the ring at my clit, relentless, merciless, building the pressure until my vision blurs at the edges and I’m trembling so hard I have to grip the armrest to stay upright. Every thrust of his hand matches the brutal rhythm below, pushing me closer and closer, until I can barely breathe.
Down in the ring, Killian and Nick crash together again, blood-slicked, exhausted, but still swinging like neither will ever yield. Fists connect with sickening thuds. Killian’s lip splits fresh; Nick’s eye swells shut. They lock up in a clinch, foreheads pressed, snarling, refusing to break.
That’s when it happens.
Story vaults the barrier first, small but fierce, shorts riding up as she scrambles over the ropes. “Stop the fight!” she screams, voice cracking over the roar. “Killian, enough, stop!”
Lavinia is half a second behind her, blue hair flying, leaping the barricade with surprising agility. “Nick! Stop it now!” she yells, rushing the canvas, her head swinging back to the corner. “Ref! Pull them the fuck apart!”
The referees surge in, finally spurred by the women in the ring. Whistles blow sharp and frantic. Remy jumps over the ropes and a minute later Rath is in there, too. Story throws herself between Killian and the next punch, lands on his chest, shoving him back. Lavinia grabs Nick’s arm mid-swing, hanging on until he staggers.
The crowd loses its mind, boos and stomping feet, thundering for the interrupted bloodbath, cheers erupting for the sheer drama, roars of frustration and excitement blending into one chaotic wave.
Up here, hidden in the shadows of the balcony, the King’s fingers twist once more and I shatter.
My body locks tight, thighs clamping around his hand, a soft, desperate gasp muffled against my own forearm as pleasure crashes through me in white-hot waves. I come apart quietly, completely,every muscle trembling while the gym rages below. He doesn’t stop. Not yet. He draws it out, deep strokes through the aftershocks until I’m limp and boneless against his chest, breath ragged, skin flushed and oversensitive.
Only then does he withdraw his hand, fingers glistening faintly in the low light. He adjusts my skirt with casual, infuriating care, then smoothes the fabric back into place before settling me more firmly across his lap, one arm banding around my waist to hold me there.
Like nothing happened.
Like he didn’t just bring me to orgasm in front of half of Forsyth while a war exploded in the ring below.
Like he didn’t just prove that he’ll give me what I want, butonlyon his terms.
The car ridehome is quiet, the Jaguar’s engine a low purr under Hunter’s steady hands. Damon rides shotgun, arms crossed, staring out the windshield. The King and I are in the back, a careful foot of space between us that feels like a canyon.
We left the gym right after the chaos peaked. The draw had the crowd feral, half cheering, half furious. Mama B climbed into the ring herself, snatched the mic, and declared the pot split between DKS and LDZ, all proceeds to their chosen charities. It calmed things just enough for us to slip out before bottles started flying.
Up front, the guys break the silence with low voices, replaying the fight.
“That uppercut Nick landed in the third?” Damon whistles. “Thought Killian was going down for sure.”
Hunter shakes his head. “Nah. Payne ate it, clinched, then came back with those body shots. Bruin’s ribs will be bruised for weeks.”
“Bruin’s got power, though,” Damon mutters. “If he’d kept distance instead of trading in the pocket–”
“Would’ve gassed out,” Hunter finishes. “Payne knew it. Smart.”
