Page 53 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

I can't respond. The sensation of him filling me completely steals every coherent thought. I squirm impatiently, pushing upward with my hips to take him in even deeper. He curses again, and then starts moving, his hips rolling in a rhythm that's both controlled and intense. Each thrust hits deep, making me gasp and cling to his shoulders. The muscles in his back flex under my hands, his body a machine of controlled power. I can feel every inch of him, every movement calculated to drive me higher.

Nick's mouth finds mine again, kissing me with the same heat as the rhythm we've set. His hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit and circling. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building so fast I can barely process it. I can hear the wet sounds of our bodies moving together, the creak of the bed frame, and my own gasping breaths mixing with his low groans. The sounds are obscene, primal, and they encourage me, my body begging for release.

"Come for me," Nick commands against my lips, his voice rough with need. "Let me feel it."

He doesn't have to tell me twice. The orgasm crashes through me, my body arching off the bed as I cry out. Nick doesn't stop. Instead, he increases the rhythm and pounds into me, making my orgasm that much more intense and pleasurable. I can't tell where one ends and another begins. Then his rhythm changes, becoming even harder and more desperate, and I feel him tense above me.

"Marla," he groans, and then he's coming, his body shuddering as he buries himself deep. I feel him pulse inside me, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. The sound of my name on his lips does something to me, makes this feel more intimate than it should.

We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard. Nick's weight presses me into the mattress, solid and warm, and I realize my hands are still gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. The sheets beneath me are damp with sweat, and twisted around my legs. I'm utterly boneless, my body still thrumming with pleasure.

Nick pulls out slowly, and I feel the loss immediately. He rolls onto his back beside me, pulling me against his side, his arm wrapping around my waist. His skin is hot against mine, his heart still pounding beneath my palm.

"Sleep," he says quietly.

I should argue. I should demand answers about what happens next, but exhaustion pulls at me, my body sated and heavy. Nick's hand strokes my hair in slow, soothing movements, encouraging sleep.

As I fall asleep, my thoughts spiral out of control and I slip into a sleep filled with conflicting dreams of three gorgeous men and danger around every corner. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

20

ALEX

I left Marla's cottage earlier this morning with mixed thoughts and emotions. My mind was on the warehouse attack that happened while all three of us were distracted with one woman, and the fact that someone inside one of our organizations is feeding information to our enemies. We still don't know who.

By the time I reached the city, my hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. I needed to hit something.

The underground fight club sits beneath an abandoned warehouse on the industrial edge of the port district. From the outside, it looks like every other decaying building in this part of town with rusted metal siding, broken windows, and weeds growing through cracked pavement. It was very intentional on my part. I didn't want to draw any unwanted attention to the club. But inside, it's a different world entirely.

I park in the private lot behind the building and take the service entrance down three flights of concrete stairs. The bass from the sound system vibrates through the walls, and I can hear the roar of the crowd before I even reach the main floor. The air grows warmer with each step down, thick with sweat, testosterone, and the metallic tang of blood.

The crowd tonight is thick, maybe two hundred people packed around the cage and spilling into the shadowed corners. Expensive suits mix with leather jackets. There's a city councilman standing next to a known arms dealer, both of them shouting at the fighters and waving cash.

I make my way through the crowd toward the private balcony overlooking the cage. People move out of my way without me having to ask. The respect is automatic and ingrained.

My manager spots me as I climb the stairs to the balcony. "Boss. Didn't expect you tonight."

"Last-minute decision." I lean against the railing, watching the current fight. Two heavyweights are circling each other in the cage, both bleeding from cuts above their eyes. The crowd is screaming for blood. "How's the card looking?"

"Good money tonight. Main event's in an hour." He hesitates. "We've got a problem, though. Kozlov pulled out. Broke his hand in training yesterday."

Kozlov was supposed to headline. He's a crowd favorite, his style brutal, technical, and he puts on a good show. "Who's replacing him?"

"Still working on it. Might have to cancel the main event."

The crowd won't like that. Canceling the main event means refunding bets, which means angry gamblers. Shit, this is not what I need tonight. I watch the current fight end with a vicious knee to the ribs that drops one fighter like a stone. The winner raises his arms, blood streaming from his nose, while the crowd erupts.

"I'll do it," I hear myself say.

My manager stares at me. "Boss?"

"I'll fight the main event." The words come out calm, but there's something dark and restless coiling in my chest that demands release. I haven't fought in this cage in a long while. I built this place, but I don't usually perform in it since I have nothing to prove. But tonight I need the distraction and violence.

"You sure about this?" my manager asks carefully.

"Find me an opponent. Someone good." I turn away from the railing. "I'll be in the back."

The locker room is concrete and fluorescent lights, cooler than the main floor but still warm enough that sweat beads on my skin immediately. I strip off my shirt and wrap my hands methodically, the ritual familiar even after all this time. My knuckles are already scarred from years of fighting and practicing my skills.