Page 8

Marlon

The roar of the crowd is deafening, a cacophony of cheers, jeers, and the rhythmic pounding of fists against the ring apron. My opponent, Rodrigo Vargas, stands across from me, his broad shoulders glistening with sweat under the harsh arena lights. He’s a brawler, all brute force and aggression, but he lacks finesse. I know I can beat him, and the thought is a steady drumbeat in the back of my mind.

But it’s not just strategy fueling me tonight. It’s her. Grace.

I glance to my left and spot her in the crowd, her hands clasped together like she’s holding her breath. Her eyes lock with mine, and even from this distance, I can see the worry mixed with pride shining in them. It steadies me, roots me.

The bell rings, and I’m back in the moment, circling Vargas. He charges forward like a bull, swinging wild haymakers that I dodge easily. He’s strong, no doubt about that, but his technique is sloppy, leaving him wide open.

I jab, a quick one-two to test his defenses, then duck under a wide hook that could’ve taken my head off if it landed. The crowd roars again, their energy feeding into the electric atmosphere.

Stay patient , I remind myself mentally.

The first round is a dance of give and take. He’s trying to corner me, but I’m too quick, slipping out of his reach and countering with sharp jabs and body shots that sap his strength little by little.

By the second round, his breathing is heavier, and his swings are slower. That’s when I press the attack.

I land a clean right hook to his jaw, staggering him, and follow up with a series of body blows that make him grunt in pain. He tries to retaliate, but I block his attempts, sidestepping and landing another punishing combo to his ribs.

The third round is mine. Vargas comes out swinging again, desperate to turn the tide, but his desperation makes him predictable. I bait him with feints, then slip in with a devastating uppercut that sends him reeling.

The referee starts the count, but Vargas stumbles to his feet at seven. He’s wobbling, though, and I can see it in his eyes—he knows it’s over.

I don’t let up. Another flurry of punches connects, and he goes down for the final time.

The bell rings, and my hand is raised in victory. The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, but all I hear is the pounding of my heart and the cheers of the crowd. I search for her face again and find her smiling, her joy cutting through the noise like a beacon.

After the post-fight formalities, I head back to my personal locker room. My knuckles throb, and there’s a shallow cut above my brow, but it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. The adrenaline still courses through me as I strip off my gloves and sit on the bench, letting out a deep breath.

The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look up to know it’s her. In the months since we found ourselves in Chile, she’s always ready to greet me after a fight.

“You were incredible,” Grace says, her voice breathless as she steps inside and closes the door behind her.

I glance up and grin, the sight of her already soothing some of the aches. “For you? Always.”

She crosses the room and kneels in front of me, her hands brushing against the cut on my brow. Her touch is featherlight, careful. “You’re bleeding,” she says softly, her brow furrowed in concern.

“It’s nothing,” I assure her, cupping her face in my hands. “You being here makes it all worth it.”

Her cheeks flush, and her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans into my touch, her eyes searching mine.

“Marlon,” she whispers, and there’s something in her voice that makes my chest tighten.

I don’t let her finish. I pull her into a kiss, hard and desperate, pouring every ounce of emotion I’ve been holding into it. Her hands find their way to my shoulders, clutching at me as if I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.

The tension between us snaps like a rubber band. She straddles my lap, her dress hiking up as her legs wrap around me. My hands grip her hips, pulling her closer as our kisses deepen.

The cool metal of the lockers presses against my back as I shift, trapping her between me and the wall. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and her lips trail down my jaw, leaving a line of fire in their wake.

“Grace,” I groan, my voice rough with need.

She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her own filled with determination and something softer, more vulnerable. “I want you,” she says, her voice steady despite the way her breath hitches.

I don’t hesitate. I tilt her chin up and kiss her again. My hands slide down her sides, fingers grazing the soft fabric of her dress until they find bare skin. The feel of her beneath my hands, warm and alive, sends a surge of heat through me. She gasps softly against my lips, her fingers tightening in my hair as I press her back against the cold metal lockers.

“You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this,” I murmur, my voice low and rough as I trail kisses along her jaw and down the curve of her neck.

“Then show me,” she whispers, her breath hitching as my lips brush against the hollow of her throat.

My hands find the hem of her dress, bunching it up as I slide it higher. Her skin is smooth under my touch, her thighs parting slightly to welcome me closer. I can feel her trembling, her breaths coming in shallow bursts as I grip her hips and pull her flush against me.

I press my forehead to hers for a moment, needing to anchor myself in the overwhelming intensity of the moment. Her eyes meet mine, dark and full of trust, and it’s all the encouragement I need.

My lips find hers again, this time slower, deeper, savoring every second. Her hands move from my shoulders to my chest, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle, brushing against the fresh bruises from the fight.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

I smile at her, the warmth of her concern almost overwhelming in the best way. “Not when you’re touching me,” I reply, my voice soft but sincere, and I see her cheeks flush with the honesty in my words. There’s something in the way she looks at me, like I’m the only person in the world who matters to her. It makes me feel like I’m the luckiest man alive.

Her hands trail lower, exploring with a curiosity that sends a jolt of electricity through me. When she reaches my waistband, she hesitates for only a moment before slipping beneath it with a confidence that surprises me. The cool air of the locker room contrasts with the heat building between us as she grips me, her touch firm and sure. The sensation of her hand around me, warm and inviting, makes my breath catch.

She strokes me once, then again, and the groan that escapes me is involuntary, a raw sound of pleasure that I can’t hold back. The sensation is too much, but in the best way. Her touch is bolder now than it was a few months ago, more sure of herself, more certain of what she wants. The quiet confidence she exudes only ignites the fire inside me, a fire that burns away any lingering restraint. Her hips shift against mine, the friction sending a rush of blood to my head.

I lift her effortlessly, feeling her legs wrap around my waist, instinctively pulling her closer, deeper, until her body is flush against mine. My hands are at her back, supporting her as I press her against the cool lockers, and there’s no thought in my head, only the need to be as close to her as possible. In one smooth motion, I push her panties to the side, my hands shaking slightly with anticipation as I line myself up.

When I finally enter her, it’s like everything falls into place. The feeling of her around me is almost overwhelming, like I’ve found a piece of myself I didn’t know was missing until now. Her nails dig into my shoulders, and I can’t help but groan at the sweet pain.

Her breath hitches, and the sounds she makes as I move inside her are more than just pleasure. The intensity of it leaves me dizzy, like I’m falling without a net, but I don’t care. There’s no part of me that doesn’t want this, want her.

“Grace,” I whisper her name like a prayer, my voice breaking as I kiss her again. My hips move with a steady rhythm, deeper, harder, and with every thrust, I pour everything I can’t say into the movement, into the way I touch her, into the way we are, in this moment, just us.

Her lips part as she breathes out a soft moan, her body reacting to me with a need that mirrors my own. Her hands tug at my hair, pulling me closer, and I lose myself in the taste of her mouth, in the warmth of her skin. There’s nothing else in the world. No fights, no future concerns, no lingering doubts. Just the feeling of her, of us, moving together in perfect sync.

The intensity of the moment is building, spiraling out of control, and it’s almost too much, but it feels like the only thing that matters. The world outside this locker room doesn’t exist anymore. It’s just us, locked in this perfect, fleeting moment of heat and hunger.

I press into her, deeper, if possible, and she meets me with equal force, her body responding to mine with a desperate need that matches my own. I can feel her tremble against me, the way her body tightens around me, and I know she’s close. I push her higher, coaxing her toward that edge with every thrust, but I don’t want to let go—not yet.

Her mouth opens in a silent gasp, her pleasure taking her by surprise, and I feel her muscles tighten around me, the sensation pushing me to the brink. I lean into her, kissing her once more, a kiss filled with all the passion I’ve held back, and I let go. Her body clutches me like a vice, and I come inside her, the release crashing over me in waves, overwhelming in its intensity.

When we finally break apart, both of us are breathing hard, her forehead resting against mine. Her fingers brush against my cheek, her touch soft, almost reverent.

“You’re everything,” I murmur, my voice thick with emotion.

She smiles, her lips red and swollen from our kisses, and I know in that moment that I’ll fight a thousand more battles if it means I get to come back to her.