“I’m... fuck...” Words tumbled from my mouth between moans of pleasure. I was losing my mind, my grip, my everything, all because of this woman who showed me how much I mean to her.
My hand moved from hers, finding my breast, pulling at the peaked nipple. The sensation sent me into overdrive, and my release broke like a wave, flooding my senses. I cried out, grinding against her tongue, desperate for every last shred of pleasure she could give me.
And just like that, even the best orgasm she had delivered to me only made me hungry for more.
Chloe moved from me, her hand wiping at her mouth as she grinned. “If you win today, I want partial credit.”
I laughed, still feeling lightheaded. She stood up, and I immediately pulled her in for a kiss.
My taste on her tongue. I’d never grow sick of it.
“IfI win,” I joked, “I’ll be sure to make this part of my pre-match routine.”
She kissed me again, her smile fading into something fiercer, her gaze locking onto mine with unwavering certainty. “Whenyou win,” she corrected, her voice low and resolute, as if she was daring the very universe to challenge her.
36
Inés
Bloodstream—Zolita
Costa vs Artyomov
Second Round—Louis Armstrong Stadium
I’d claimed the first set, but in the second, Mariya Artyomov was a formidable opponent. Fast on her feet, fighting me for every point. But in the final game, I’d managed to creep ahead, and now one point stood between me and victory.
The afternoon crowd was electric, rowdy as Americans tended to be but in the best way. Where Wimbledon whispered of prestige and tradition, Queens roared with intensity, each shot greeted by a chorus of cheers or groans.
It wasn’t about ceremony; it was about raw talent and resilience, a proving ground for those who thrived under pressure and a reminder that tennis could be as much about heart as precision.
And today, I fucking had it.
I served, high and fast, sending it flying crosscourt. Mariya returned, not missing a beat, and we fell into a rally, each of us challenging the other with all the space the court offered. A squeak of our trainers against the hard surface followed the pop of the ball against the racket, the crowd’s eyes tracking every movement.
She pushed me to the back of the court, the speed of play blistering. Mariya was the queen of spin, driving the ball up and over the net. She was trying to break my rhythm and force me into a defensive position.
But my weeks with Chloe felt like a crash course in defensive, anticipating this sort of aggressive playing. And so, when she sent the ball diagonally into the left corner, I was ready.
I drove the ball down, along the sideline. It bounced in the box, but she was unprepared, too slow to reach, and it sailed clean out of bounds. I took the set and the match.
The crowd around us roared in delight as we both walked towards the net, shaking hands, Mariya exchanging congratulations for my “better luck next time,” and we moved on, grabbing our belongings and heading off the court.
The air was thick with August’s lingering heat, but the buzz of excitement from the crowd was palpable, a reminder of how alive this tournament felt. I wove through the press of bodies, making my way back to the main stadium, where the locker rooms and cool-down areas promised a reprieve.
“Inés!”
I turned at the sound of my name, spotting Selene breaking through the crowd. Her bright smile stretched across her face, as warm as ever. I greeted her with a wave, resisting the urge to pull her into a hug in spite of how sweaty I was.
“I caught the end of your match!” she exclaimed, reaching out to touch my arms. “You were incredible.”
“Thank you,” I replied, unable to hide my smile. “It felt good out there.”
Her expression shifted slightly, her head tilting as she studied me. “I was hoping to drag you to the press room for a bit.”
I blinked, surprise evident. “They want to talk to me?”
“Of course they do!” she said, already turning towards the stadiumentrance. I fell into step beside her as she added, “You’ve been killing it lately. People are noticing.”
