The Arena was an underground fighting ring. Men of the streets, men of crime, took to The Arena to settle disputes in the time-honored tradition of a theatrical battle.
Two men would go into the ring, armed with nothing but their bodies and minds, and fight until one was no longer standing. Some died. Some didn’t. Those that lived knew what they were made of.
It smelled of sweat, testosterone, and blood. Igor wasn’t the only one fighting that evening. A decent-sized crowd had already gathered to watch two men currently engaged in a duel. Most of the patrons were men, but there were a few women present, clinging to their protectors and looking around like they wanted to be anywhere than where they were.
Bookies were taking bets, yelling over the sounds of flesh smacking on flesh.
The large, brass bell rang in rapid succession as the referee called out the winner of the most recent match. A stocky, robust fellow with cauliflower ears raised a bloody hand. The throng went wild.
This was The Arena and the men who fought were gladiators.
Igor came out of the dressing room, garbed in a white t-shirt and a pair of black gym shorts. Sasha was standing by the water fountain waiting for him. Igor moved forward, his friend trailing ever so slightly behind him.
“He’s in the glass box, yeah?” Igor asked without taking his eyes off of Sasha. He would not give Olaf the satisfaction of showing him anything less than a composed successor.
“Da. Kat and her parents are with him.”
“Of course.” He flexed his fists. “Do you know who I’m fighting?”
“Vlad Yevtukh. A Ukrainian. He’s…”
“What?”
“Huge,” Sasha finished grimly. He gestured to the gargantuan man waiting his turn outside the corner of the ring.
Igor had already popped four aspirin and four Ibuprofen in preparation. If it hadn’t been illegal, Igor would’ve procured a drug on the black market that would dull his pain while he fought. Then again, pain was the body’s way of expressing itself—and drugs in The Arena were forbidden. No advantages, for anyone. Not even for the son of the Russian mob leader.
Igor sighed. “Let’s do this.”
Sasha stalked over to the referee and whispered something in the man’s ear. He nodded, his face showing his excitement. After announcing Igor and Vlad, he asked them to come forward.
Vlad slipped into the ring, removed his black silk robe, and tossed it at a small crony behind him. His dark eyes watched Igor approach, his face devoid of emotion.
Igor choked down the fear that threatened to consume him, refusing to show it to the audience, his father, or his opponent. He’d had his nose broken once or twice, back when he was a small, sensitive kid who had been a target for bullies. He’d grown up, toughened up, learned self-defense—had become an alpha.
He slipped into a role and tuned out the cheering audience. He couldn’t see them anyway, not with the garish overhead lights.
Igor focused on Vlad. He wouldn’t know the man’s weaknesses until they started to spar.
The bell rang.
The two men lunged for each other in a brutal display of violence. Igor fought with every instinct he possessed; he pounded, he crunched bone, he spilled blood.
Vlad gave it back to him.
Sweat poured into Igor’s swelling eyes. He struggled to take in air through his broken nose. He was tiring, fast. His speed and flexibility were no match for Vlad’s brute strength.
How did Jack fell the giant?
He chopped down the beanstalk.
With the last of his energy, Igor crouched and drove his body into Vlad’s knees. The man had been expecting an attack of a different nature and hadn’t seen Igor’s ploy until it was too late. Losing his balance, he gripped Igor’s hair and yanked. But Igor would not be defeated. Gritting his teeth, he rammed Vlad into the side of the ring. The behemoth bounced off the springs, ricocheted back towards Igor, his hands outstretched and ready. At the last moment, Igor moved to the side, stuck out his foot and tripped Vlad. The giant went down into a sprawling heap, but before he could get up, Igor sent a swift kick to both of Vlad’s kidneys.
The fight ended with a ring of the bell. Triumphant, Igor maneuvered his adrenaline-pumped body out of the ring and stalked to the dressing room. He locked himself in a bathroom stall before he puked up three Red Bulls and a healthy dose of fear.
He had never wanted a woman more than he wanted one right then. He didn’t care what she looked like, how old she was, or if she found him attractive.
His body throbbed with pain and bloodlust. He leaned against the cool wall of the dressing room and closed his eyes. He needed a woman before the pain settled into him and rendered him useless.
“Igor?”
He lifted his bloody, bruised limbs from the wall and turned.
Maryruth stood a few feet from him. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The bright lights overhead made her look pale. Or maybe she was pale because all the blood had drained from her face.
“What are you doing here?” he rasped. His gaze left her eyes to drag down her body. She wore a pair of dark jeans, flats, a light peacoat. Completely out of place in a sinner’s den.
He wanted to drag his tongue along the column of her throat, taste her skin, mar it with his blood. The primitive picture took hold of him until he was reaching for her. He forced his hands down.
“Get out,” he gritted.
“You’re hurt.”
“Da.”
“Let me help you.” Her eyes widened as she pleaded.
“I’ll hurt you, if you stay.”
She took a step closer. “You need me.”
He didn’t correct her.
“You need me the way a man needs a woman.” Her eyes dropped to the bulge in his shorts. “So take me.”
“You don’t know what you’re offering.” One last chance. He’d give her one last chance before he pounced, took her body, used her to satisfy himself.
“I know,” she said quietly. “You won’t break me.”
If he touched her, he’d make sure they both went up in flames. He’d torch everything inside of her, reducing her to a pile of ashes and lust. If he touched her, she might survive, only to leave him. Still, better to know now…
“Take me, Igor. I’m yours.”
He lunged for her, grasping her arms and hauling her to him. His lips crushed hers, forcing them open, invading her mouth with his tongue. He felt like a conqueror, beating the weak into submission.
Before he knew it, she was shoving him against the wall, claiming his mouth as her own.
He growled.
A conqueror needed a queen by his side.
His fingers ripped the hair tie from her ponytail, spilling blond tresses down her back. He gripped her thick hair and tugged, forcing her mouth from his. His teeth nipped at her neck, his tongue bathing the throbbing pulse of her blood.
He released her and went for her jeans, needing them off, needing to feel the hot silk of her skin, needing to feel her wetness.
The vixen wore a black lace thong.
He shredded it in one move. Maryruth shuddered.
“Wall,” he commanded. “Hands on the wall.”
She nearly tripped in her eagerness to do as he commanded. She pressed her cheek and hands to the wall, giving him her backside, giving him her trust, giving him her body.
He’d pay homage to her later. Now to rut.
His hands shoved down his gym shorts and boxers in one swift move. Taking himself in hand, he stroked his hard, hot length a few times. He was more than primed, more than ready.
Was she?
He reached around, his fingers finding the entrance to her body. She was hot and ready, moaning her want for him. She leaned over, presenting herself like a sacrifice.
Igor slammed into her. He’d never felt anything like this. Hot, wet, tight, his.
She squirmed against him, groaning out her pleasure.
His hands slipped up her sweater to tease her already hardened nipples.
“More,” she gasped as he continued his relentless pillage. “I need more.”
He gave it to her, hard and fast, slick and hot. Igor was past words, past anything but feeling her body holding onto his in a relentless grip.
“Harder!” she yelled.
One hand clutched her waist as the other moved to the front of her. He rubbed in circles until she was punching the wall with her closed fists, coming fiercely and loudly around him. With a few more mindless, aching thrusts, he slammed into her a final time and came with a guttural shout.
Igor collapsed against her, pressed his head to her shoulder blade and tried to keep his heart from jumping out of his ribs.
She shivered, her body clasping him.
He shuddered and slowly eased out of her. Igor bent to pull up his boxers and shorts, already feeling his body start to betray him. In another hour, he wouldn’t be able to move.
Maryruth turned to face him. Her cheeks were pink, her lips were plump, and her eyes gleamed under the bright lights. She didn’t bother trying to restore order to her hair.
Reality came rushing back and shame flooded Igor.
She reached out to grasp his chin in her delicate, slim fingers, forcing him to look at her. She gently pressed her lips to his before pulling back.
“Let’s get you home.”