Desire (5 page)

“Well, I do,” I replied. “Only for you.”

“I see,” he said. “I’m very flattered. After tonight’s match I thought that nothing good would come of today, but you may have just saved it!” He tried to smile, but his mangled face winced at the movement.

“Oh!” I said. It was horrible to see him in such pain. “Let me clean that up for you.”

Glad I could do something to help him, I grabbed some cotton batting from the dressing table and walked to the sink that stood in the corner of the room to moisten it with some cold water. I drew close to him and then spread my legs so that I had one thigh on either side of his lap and his head was level with my breasts. I was so close to him that the heat from his body made mine even warmer and I could see every tiny scar on his face. My whole body was singing and tingling, and I was sure he’d hear how fast my pulse was racing. My cunt hovered just a few inches away from his naked, sweaty, glistening torso. His cornflower blue eyes looked up into mine.

“Be gentle with me,” he joked. “I couldn’t take another blow tonight.”

I didn’t reply but instead bathed his wound with the wet cotton, cleaning the blood and the sweat from his broken, swollen skin. The injury beneath wasn’t all that bad. I cleaned him up, touching him more tenderly than I’d ever touched anyone. Soothingly I stroked his hair and told him that it was all going to be okay. Without thinking about what I was doing, I pulled his head toward me and cradled it in between my breasts. I had meant it as a comforting rather than sexual gesture, but his soft damp cheek on my cleavage sent a jolt of arousal through me that made me gasp. Over the locker-room smell of his dressing room, I could detect another, musky scent: my own juices beginning to ooze out of my pussy. If I could smell it, surely he could, too.

I rocked him back and forth as he nuzzled his head deeper and deeper into my cleavage. When he lifted a bandaged hand to my top, pulled down a strap to expose my breast, and put his lips gently to my nipple, it seemed like the only course of action he could have taken. I tipped my head back, closed my eyes, and abandoned my body to the delicious sexual sensation. The tension had been building up for over a decade, and I was intent on savoring its release. I leaned in toward him and we kissed, a soft, salty affair that lasted for an eternity and made small talk redundant. I caressed his battered cheek. The hands that I knew could knock a man out with one blow were gentle on my breasts, my thighs, my belly, as he slowly stroked and explored my body. I felt soft and vulnerable next to him, and the roughness of the bandages that still bound his knuckles created an arousing friction on my fair skin.

He pulled away. “I’m a mess,” he mumbled. “Do you want me to shower?”

I shook my head. “I want you fresh from the fight,” I whispered and placed my hand between his legs. My fingers closed on soft balls that rose up as I cupped them and then on a hard, erect shaft, which I stroked through the silk of his shorts before pulling out his waistband and releasing his quivering hard-on. It was a perfect match for the rest of his body: thick, stout, and strong. He pulled my panties to one side and began to gently stroke my clitoris, my juices seeping on to his bandaged hands. He slid one finger inside me, and my greedy hole tightened around it. With his face buried in the crevice of my breasts, he took first one swollen nipple, then the other, between his tongue and lips and sucked gently again. The softer his tongue, the hotter and wetter my pussy got. I had always imagined that my gentle giant would reserve his softest touches for me.

I lowered myself down his body, my pussy and bush tickling the length of his chest from his pecs to his rock-hard stomach until I was positioned just over his dick. Shifting around until I felt the tip of it, I lowered myself down on it gently, gently, slowly feeling his warmth and bulk fill me up and stretch my insides. I was aware of the size of his thighs between my legs, of the bulging biceps that flexed and rippled every time his arms moved to hold my waist or grab my ass. Clutching his shoulders, I twisted and ground my hips, massaging his prick deep inside me. He used all his considerable strength to push his hips up toward my body, forcing himself deeper inside me, deeper than any man had ever been before. He placed one chunky fingertip on my clitoris and pressed down gently. With my cunt turned to liquid, I came, enjoying ripples of pleasure that felt as if they would never end. Nor did I want them to. As my pussy closed around his dick, he shot his load inside me. I relaxed my legs, then wrapped them around his back and tilted my face up for another kiss. We stayed like this, holding each other close, while his dick contracted and his spunk spilled from my slit, staining his silk shorts. I kissed the top of his head and stroked his hair.

“So,” I said to him, half afraid of the answer. “Are you really going to retire? Because if you do, I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.”

He placed a kiss on my right nipple. “I honestly don’t know,” he replied. “But either way, you’ll be fine.”

I didn’t understand.

“If I retire, I will have to take you away and marry you so that I can spend the rest of my life fucking you. And if I don’t, you will have to be my lucky charm and follow me around the world, watching me fight until I can’t fight anymore. Will you stick around?”

He knew that the answer would be yes.

That’s how my fighter, my lover, my husband kept on fighting, kept traveling the world, and became the oldest world heavyweight champion of all time. The day he won back his title, we made love on the floor of the boxing ring. He hasn’t lost a fight since. As long as he has me by his side he’ll never be defeated again. And he will always, always have me.

O
h, my God, Polly!” shrieked Sammy as we turned the key and entered the honeymoon suite of the hotel. “This place is
amazing
!” I looked around at the four-poster bed dressed in white linen and scattered with rose petals, the floor-to-ceiling Venetian mirrors, and the clawfoot bathtub on a platform in one corner of the room. Sammy was right. It was amazing.

“It’s lush, isn’t it?” I said, turning to my best friend and bridesmaid. “It’s almost a shame to share it with you.” I winked so she’d know I was joking. Sammy was spending my last night of singledom with me, keeping me prisoner in my room, so that I wouldn’t run the risk of seeing Steve, my fiancé, the night before the wedding. Steve was in the same hotel but sequestered in another wing with his friends. He and I had made a pact that he could have the bar while Sammy and I would stay in my room, pampering ourselves with the most luxurious and expensive room service available.

As soon as we’d unpacked our bags and I’d hung my wedding dress on the back of the wardrobe door, Sammy ran to the minibar. “Look at these!” she said, holding up two small champagne bottles. “Aren’t they cute?”

I was busy checking out all the posh products in the bathroom. “Look at this!” I said, surveying a large wicker basket packed with luxury shampoos, conditioners, massage oils, and facial masks. “We’ve got our own personal spa tucked in here! There’re enough lotions and potions to keep us busy all evening.”

“Not that you need it, Polly,” said Sammy, her eyes shining. “You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do tonight.” I was touched by her compliment. I’d been dieting, working out, looking after myself in the approach to my big day, and it was nice to feel appreciated. I’d also gotten long, blond hair extensions, which made me feel like my fantasy woman, a princess with a fairy-tale hairstyle for my fairy-tale day. “Seriously,” she said, stroking a strand of hair that had fallen across my shoulders. “Steve’s a lucky, lucky man.”

“Thanks,” I said, flattered. “You’re not so bad yourself.” And it was true. Since she’d met Jez, her boyfriend, Sammy had blossomed. Dark and slender where I was blond and curvy, she had become more confident and beautiful than ever.

“But you never can be too pretty,” I said, surveying the beauty products. “I don’t know where to start!”

“I do,” said Sammy, cracking open a mini champagne bottle and handing it to me. Good idea, girl, I thought, feeling very glad that Sam was my maid of honor.

After finishing our drinks, we took turns in the shower using the luxurious sugar-and-olive oil body scrubs in the bathroom. Then we both slipped into plush white hotel robes that felt oh so soft on our skin. Next we applied facial masks that were supposed to set but didn’t, because we couldn’t stop talking. We tried to give each other pedicures, using the foot scrubs and peppermint lotions in the bathroom but kept tickling each other so much that we didn’t get very far. Still determined to take full advantage of the free products, Sammy rummaged farther among the beauty supplies.

“What about this?” she asked, holding up a bottle of massage oil. “Want a nice relaxing massage?” I didn’t know the first thing about massage and neither did Sammy, but we were determined to get value for money out of these beauty treatments.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll do you first. Where’re you tense?”

“Backs of my legs,” she said. “I’ve spent too long on that damn step machine trying to get in shape for tomorrow’s dress. My thighs might not be wobbly, but they sure are stiff.” Sammy lay facedown on the bed and hiked up her robe so that the tops of her thighs and the bottom of her ass were exposed. Her skin was as soft as a peach, and her thighs were lean and slender. I poured a little massage oil onto her smooth skin and, using gentle kneading motions, began to massage her.

“Ooh, that’s lovely,” purred Sammy. “You’re very good. Just there,” she said, as my knuckles worked the crease where her bottom met her legs. I used the flat of my palms to smooth the oil deep into her skin, and, following her instructions about what felt good, swirled my hands around her butt cheeks. Only when I found my thumbs drifting toward Sammy’s inner thighs did I realize that my massage might be about to get a little too intimate. I’d been so focused on how good her baby-soft skin felt beneath my palms and her moans of pleasure that I’d forgotten there are some places you just don’t touch your friends.

“Right,” I said, ending my massage session with some brisk, efficient strokes somewhere near Sammy’s knees. “I’m done now.”

“That was bliss,” said Sammy, rolling over on to her back. Her face was flushed, and, as she turned over, her robe became unfastened, revealing a small, pert breast topped with a soft, puffy nipple. She pulled her gown back toward her chest within seconds, but I’d seen something that made me feel nervous and uneasy.

“Your turn now,” she said, and as she spoke I noticed that she didn’t look me in the eye. “Tell me where your aches and pains are.”

I moaned about how much my shoulders ached after weeks of poring over menus and seating plans and orders of service, and Sammy said she would do her best to get rid of the tension. I lay facedown, tits slightly splayed to the sides, and slid the top of my robe off, but kept it tied around my waist, covering my ass. When Sammy poured the massage oil onto my back, it trickled and tickled deliciously. Her hands on my neck and shoulders were warm, slender, and strong; I was impressed by the way she found each knot of tension and released it with masterful strokes as though she had been doing this her whole life. And I could tell that she was enjoying it, too, as she responded to the feedback I gave her and even complimented me on my all-over tan.

The more confident she grew, the farther her hands traveled: her sensitive caresses worked their way down my arms, releasing all the tension I was carrying around in my hands, and her fingers slid under my arms, teasingly touching the sides of my breasts. If Sammy had been a boy, this would have been the most effective foreplay ever! I decided to remind myself to joke with her later about teaching Steve a thing or two.

“Okay,” said Sammy eventually, when I was just about to drift off to sleep. “You’re done. How did that feel?”

“Amazing,” I said and meant it. I sat up, pulling my robe back on and sinking into the pillows. “So now what?”

“Well,” said Sammy, surveying the room, “I think we’ve used up just about everything in here, so now it’s time to take advantage of room service.”

We ordered champagne and oysters, which arrived on a silver tray. I’d never had oysters before, and Sammy showed me how to eat them, putting the shell to my lips and tipping my head back so that they slid down my throat. “Just let it glide down,” she advised. “A bit like swallowing after a blow job.”

When Sammy ate oysters, she looked elegant and sexy whereas I failed the first couple of attempts and got more shellfish up my nose than into my mouth. Sammy leaned over and helped me out: putting her hand under my chin, she tenderly tipped my head back at the right angle, and I swallowed the delicate muscle and liquor down whole. When I finally did it properly, I was instantly hooked on the salty, slippery sexiness of oysters. I made a mental note to order some of these when Steve and I were on our honeymoon.