I adore my husband. Marcus is everything to me—kind, devoted, the man who still makes my heart flutter after eight years. But tonight, as he slept beside me, his breathing steady and trusting, I was wide awake, staring at the ceiling, my stomach knotted with dread. Tomorrow was the biggest fight of his career: Marcus versus Will Tile, the undefeated heavyweight champion. Will was a mountain of a man—six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty pounds of carved ebony muscle, with a reputation for ending fights in brutal fashion. Marcus was tough, scrappy, but he didn't stand a chance. One clean shot from Will and it could be over—lights out, hospital, or worse.
I couldn't let that happen.
So I did the only thing I could think of. I made a deal.
Will's training camp was in a private gym downtown. I waited until the place emptied out, then slipped inside. He was alone, shadowboxing in the ring, sweat glistening on his dark skin, every muscle rippling under the harsh lights. When he saw me, he stopped, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his handsome face.
"Mrs. Daniels," he said, voice deep and smooth like aged whiskey. "Didn't expect to see you here."
I swallowed, my pulse already racing. "I need to talk to you. About tomorrow."
He climbed out of the ring, towering over me even from a few feet away. Up close, the heat radiating off his body was overwhelming—salt and musk and raw power. "Talk," he said, wiping his brow with a towel.
I laid it out, voice trembling only a little. "Don't hurt him. Please. Go easy. Let him have this win. In return…" I took a breath, meeting his dark eyes. "You can have me. However you want. As rough as you want. Anywhere you want to put it—my mouth, my pussy, my ass. The table, the couch, the floor… nothing off limits. I'll obey everything."
The gym went utterly silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. Will studied me, gaze dragging slowly down my body—over the thin sundress clinging to my curves, my nipples already tightening under his scrutiny. Then he stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin.
"You sure about that, sweetheart?" His voice dropped lower, velvet and dangerous. "Because once I start, I don't hold back."
I nodded, throat dry. "I'm sure."
He reached out, one massive hand cupping my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. "Then we have a deal."
The next evening, after Marcus left for the arena, I drove to the address Will texted me—a quiet, upscale loft downtown. My hands shook on the steering wheel the entire way. I told myself this was for Marcus. For us. But deep down, a treacherous heat had already started pooling between my thighs.
Will opened the door shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the deep V of his abs disappearing beneath the waistband. The outline of his cock—thick, heavy, half-hard already—was impossible to miss. He didn't speak, just stepped aside and let me in.
The loft was dimly lit, all dark wood and leather, the air faintly scented with sandalwood and his skin. He closed the door behind me with a soft click that sounded final.
"Take off the dress," he said.
I reached for the hem with trembling fingers and pulled it over my head. No bra. Just a black lace thong. The cool air kissed my bare skin, raising goosebumps. My nipples hardened instantly under his gaze.
Will circled me slowly, like a predator savoring his meal. His fingertips trailed over my shoulder, down my spine, stopping just above the curve of my ass. "You're even prettier than your pictures," he murmured. "Soft. Ripe."
He stopped in front of me, tilting my chin up. Then he kissed me—slow, deliberate, claiming. His lips were firm, tasting faintly of mint and salt. His tongue slid against mine, coaxing, demanding. One huge hand settled at the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. I felt every inch of his hardness pressing into my belly—hot, thick, pulsing.
When he pulled back, my lips were swollen, breath coming in shallow pants.
"On your knees," he said.
The hardwood floor was cool against my skin as I sank down. He pushed his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock, and my breath caught. It was beautiful—long, impossibly thick, the dark skin stretched taut over rigid veins, the head already glistening. Bigger than anything I'd ever taken.
He wrapped my hair around his fist, guiding me forward. "Open."
I parted my lips and took him in—slowly, inch by inch, feeling him stretch my mouth wide. The taste of him—clean skin, faint salt, pure male—flooded my tongue. He didn't thrust yet, just let me adjust, let me feel the weight of him sliding deeper until the head nudged the back of my throat. My eyes watered. Saliva pooled. I moaned around him, the vibration making him hiss.
"Good girl," he praised, voice rough. Then he started to move—slow, controlled strokes that grew deeper, firmer. His grip tightened in my hair, angling my head just how he wanted. I gagged softly when he pushed too far, but he didn't stop, just held me there a moment, letting me feel the stretch, the helplessness, before easing back.
After minutes that felt like hours, he pulled out, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening cock. He hauled me up by the arms and kissed me again, tasting himself on my tongue.
He lifted me easily—hands under my thighs—and carried me to the dining table. Set me on the edge. Ripped my thong off with one sharp tug. The lace tore like paper.
"Spread your legs."
I did, shamelessly. Cool air kissed my soaked folds. He dropped to his knees, spread me wider with his thumbs, and dragged his tongue up my center in one slow, filthy lick. I cried out, hips jerking. He did it again, slower, savoring. Then he circled my clit with the flat of his tongue, gentle at first, building pressure until I was grinding against his face, desperate.
Two thick fingers pushed inside me without warning. I was so wet they slid in easily, but the stretch still burned deliciously. He curled them, stroking that spot that made my thighs tremble, all while his mouth worked my clit—sucking, flicking, relentless.
I came hard, back arching off the table, a broken moan tearing from my throat. He didn't stop, just kept licking softly through the aftershocks until I was shaking, oversensitive.
Then he stood, lined himself up, and pushed in—one slow, inexorable thrust that split me open. I gasped at the burn, the impossible fullness. He was so deep I could feel him in my stomach.
"Fuck, you're tight," he growled. His hands gripped my hips, holding me in place as he started to move—long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive inch inside me. The table creaked beneath us. My breasts bounced with every thrust. He leaned down, capturing one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me whimper.
He fucked me like that for what felt like forever—slow, then faster, then slow again, keeping me on the edge. Sweat slicked our skin. The room filled with the wet sounds of our bodies, my breathless moans, his low grunts.
Eventually he pulled out, flipped me over, bent me across the table. My cheek pressed to cool wood. He spread my ass cheeks, spat once, and pushed into my pussy again from behind. The new angle had me seeing stars. One hand wrapped lightly around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, reminding me who was in control. The other came down in a sharp spank that made me clench around him.
He fucked me harder now, hips slapping against my ass, the table rocking. Every thrust pushed the air from my lungs. I came again, harder than the first, walls fluttering around his cock.
Without pulling out, he carried me to the couch—still impaled, my legs wrapped around his waist. He sat, pulling me down to straddle him. I rode him slowly at first, grinding, feeling him throb deep inside. His hands roamed—squeezing my breasts, pinching my nipples, gripping my ass to guide my rhythm.
Then he took over, thrusting up into me with brutal force. The couch creaked beneath us. My nails dug into his shoulders. Sweat dripped down his chest. I could smell him everywhere—musk and sex and dominance.
He flipped me onto my back on the couch, hooked my legs over his shoulders, and pounded into me so deep I sobbed with pleasure. His hand found my throat again, pressure light but firm, making my head swim.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I forced my eyes open, meeting his dark gaze as he drove into me relentlessly. The tension coiled tighter and tighter until I shattered again, clenching around him so hard he groaned.
Finally, he pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach on the rug. He spread my cheeks, pressed the slick head of his cock against my ass. I tensed.
"Relax," he murmured, one hand stroking my back. He pushed slowly—inch by thick inch—until I was stretched impossibly wide around him. The burn was intense, but he gave me time, rocking gently until pleasure overtook the sting.
Then he started to move—slow, deep strokes that had me moaning into the rug. One hand reached beneath me, fingers circling my clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming. I came again, harder than before, my whole body shaking.
Will's rhythm faltered. His grip tightened. With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep and came—hot pulses filling me, marking me.
We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard. Then he pulled out gently, turned me over, and kissed me—slow, almost tender.
"You kept your end," he said quietly. "I'll keep mine."
The next night, Marcus won. Decision, not knockout. Will carried him the full twelve rounds, never landing the big shot. Marcus came home ecstatic, bruised but whole, holding the belt like it was made of gold.
He kissed me fiercely, told me I was his good-luck charm.
I smiled, legs still sore, body still humming with the memory of Will's hands, his cock, his taste.
I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
For Marcus.
For us.