The intensity of it was too much. I felt the coil tighten in my gut, the edge approaching fast.
“Cal, I’m close,” I panted, my rhythm getting erratic. “I can’t—”
“Fuck, yes,” he growled, reaching down between our sweating bodies. His hand wrapped around my shaft, stroking me in time with my thrusts. “Cum on me, baby. Mark me.”
I cried out, my back arching as the orgasm ripped through me. I couldn’t hold back. With a choked sob, I spilled hot and fast, my cum coating his taut stomach and chest, slicking the skin between us.
The sight of my release on him undid Cal completely. He shouted my name, his body seizing beneath me, his hips driving up hard into me one last time.
I collapsed forward onto his chest, completely spent, gasping for air in the thick, musky scent of the room.
Silence reclaimed the space, broken only by our ragged, synced breathing. We were a mess of sweat and fluids, trembling in the aftermath.
Cal’s arms wrapped around me instantly, holding me tight, his hand stroking down my sweat slicked back. He didn’t make a joke. He didn’t move to clean up. He just held me.
“You’re perfect,” Cal whispered into my hair, his voice sounding wrecked, thick with something that scared the hell out of me. “Don’t ever think I want anything else.”
12
AUGUST - SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO
Now Playing: Black Beatles - Rae Sremmurd, Gucci Mane
IfAtlantawasaphysical assault, Puerto Rico was a hallucination.
The air inside the Coliseo de Puerto Rico was thick enough to choke on. It was a physical weight, a suffocating cocktail of eighteen thousand screaming fans, the sulfur smell of pyrotechnics, and the kind of Caribbean humidity that made your clothes stick to your skin like a second layer of flesh.
Tonight wasn’t just another show on the loop. It wasHeatwave. The mid-year spectacle. The night where the UWF proved it could sell out international arenas without the machine of the major leagues behind it.
And tonight, the energy was different. It was manic. It was desperate. Every man on the roster knew that tonight was the night you either stole the show or you got left behind.
“Go out there and steal it, Giant,” I said, slapping Evan on the shoulder as his music hit.
Evan looked pale. He was vibrating with nerves, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was booked in the opener for the UWF Television Championship, his first shot at a singles title.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Evan whispered, clutching his stomach. His bleach-blond hair was perfectly blow-dried, channeling that arrogant ‘Showstopper’ energy he idolized, but his eyes were wide with terror. “I can’t feel my legs, Si.”
“Don’t you dare,” Cal grinned, leaning against the doorframe, already half taped up for his own match later. “Puke on the champion. It establishes dominance. Make him slip in it.”
Evan let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, shook out his arms like a prize fighter, and walked through the curtain.
We watched on the monitor in the back, huddled around the small screen with half the roster. And for the next fifteen minutes, Evan didn’t just wrestle; he put on a clinic.
He moved like a rubber band. He took bumps that looked like car crashes, flying into turnbuckles so hard his hair whipped back, flipping inside out on clotheslines. He made the champion look like a monster, flopping around the ring like a fish on dry land, feeding off the crowd’s sympathy. He had the cocky swagger mixed with the grit of a guy who refused to stay down no matter how hard he got hit.
When he finally hit his finisher, a superkick that sounded like a whip crack followed by a leaping DDT that spiked the champion into the mat, the referee’s hand hit the canvas for the third time.
One. Two. Three.
The roar from the San Juan crowd was deafening.
Evan collapsed to his knees, clutching the silverplated Television Title to his chest, weeping openly in the center of the ring.
“That’s my boy!” Cal shouted at the monitor, punching the wall in excitement. “Look at the sell! He made that match! He made it!”
I smiled, a swell of pride in my chest so strong it almost hurt. We were doing it. We were actually doing it.
My match was third on the card. A technical showcase against a veteran cruiserweight named Hector “The Hornet” Hayes.
