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The first time, they’re on a tour of the building as a potential future investor — or at least someone worth entertaining to prevent them from buying up the place and turning it into something else. Since snatching Fairfax Industries from their father’s hands, they have a migraine-inducing number of people in their ears talking about diversifying investments and purchasing real estate. If nothing else, the Bear Pit is a break from the routine, with a sweaty throng of people pulsing with a chaos Arin didn’t know they could miss.
The tour naturally includes the locker rooms, as if they gave a damn about the facilities. There’s nothing interesting about benches and lockers, but inside one of them, a fighter is removing his gloves. His big, naked pectorals bounce with the motion. Every inch of him gleams with sweat and no small amount of someone else’s blood. His body hair clings damply to the contours of his sculpted muscles.
He sweeps a gauze-wrapped hand through his brown hair before his dark eyes meet Arin’s, and all the moisture leaves their mouth.
“Meet our champion, Jacob Lash,” the owner says. Lash barely acknowledges the man. He’s busy smirking at Arin like he knows something they don’t.
They do not invest in the Bear Pit, but they do come back.
They haven’t done something stupid or reckless in years. It’s usually not worth the cost. But these days the worst that can happen is they’ll lose a little money.
Lash becomes that stupid thing.
It’s not often Arin makes it to the Bear Pit, but when they do, it has more to do with the post-match than anything that happens in the ring. There’s no formal title to what they do, no real expectations. Whatever Lash does on nights when Arin’s not around is none of their business. Still, when they catch him surrounded by fans angling to become the flavor of the week, all it takes is eye contact to get Lash to extract himself, and an unwanted thrill of victory races through Arin’s veins.
They rarely go far. It’s almost always the locker room where they first met. It’s the same this time.
“Lookin’ good, baby,” Lash starts, but they’re not here for his conversation.
“Don’t talk,” they say as they fumble the lock on the door.
When they kiss him, they taste salt. His face is still sweaty against theirs. The smell of it is all over him, filling their head with a rush like the first cigarette of the day.
They back him up to one of the benches, clambering into his lap to sink their teeth into his lip. His big hands roam, hot even with Arin’s layers of clothing between them, but they don’t push or pull — not yet. Not when Arin is happily trying to devour him already, mouth working down the side of his neck while he laughs breathlessly.
Their palms press into the generous swell of his chest, fingers digging into the muscle. His nipples tighten under their hands. They do it more when Arin follows with their mouth.
The floor is cold when they drop gracelessly to their knees. Lash’s belly shudders beneath their greedy mouth and hands, and his legs spread wide to make room for them. His thighs are slick, hard muscle under their fingers.
“Baby,” he says above them, and one hand drops into Arin’s hair, soft as a guy like Lash knows how to be. He has a nickname for everyone. This one is no different, no matter how he sighs when he says it. Half the time Arin thinks it’s so he doesn’t get anyone’s names mixed up.
It’s refreshing, how little Lash wants from them. A quick fuck or a blowjob or a hand here and there, and then he’s out of Arin’s hair. It’s one of the few easy things they’ve got going for them these days.
Everybody wants something. Getting their trust and taking over the company was supposed to make things better, but now there’s always someone who needs their attention or their money or a decision made. Lash doesn’t ask for anything but this, and he’ll take the decisions out of Arin’s hands if that’s what they’re in the mood for.
This is easy, straightforward. Nothing but two people scratching an itch.
Lash’s fingers curl against their scalp, raising goosebumps all over and anchoring them to the current running through their body. He doesn’t push or pull, not yet. He doesn’t have to.
They press kisses into one thigh, sucking the taste of salt off his damp skin. The shorts he wears for his fights hug those big thighs. Arin pushes the hem upward and follows with their mouth, pressing in and in until the fabric is too bunched up to let them go any farther.
With nowhere else to go, they finally cave to the urge that’s been plaguing them the whole time, and they bury their face in his lap. The shorts are still soaked through with sweat from the fight, damp fabric clinging to their face as they breathe, open-mouthed.
Above them, Lash shifts his weight, hooking thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. Awkward as it is, he barely dislodges Arin. They’re quick to help him out of the protective guard tucked into his jockstrap, but they don’t have the patience to wait any longer.
They’re back between his legs before he can pull the underwear itself off, one hand stroking his cock. As it hardens, they mouth along the length of it, dragging the fabric askew.
His legs spread wider. “Eager tonight, aren’t you, baby? How long’s it been? Three weeks, four?”
They have to stop what they’re doing, but they keep that hand on his cock, thumbing just under the crown and watching him shudder. “Sorry, I’ve been busy running the biggest company in the country. How long has it been for you? A day?”
“Jealousy looks good on you, baby.” It’s only Lash’s ego talking, maybe some wishful thinking, but it’s irritating anyway. “I can’t help that the Lash has so many fans.”
“I said I didn’t want to talk.”
He laughs above them, tugging on their hair, but he stops running his mouth for now. Instead he urges theirs back to his cock, more insistent now than before. That’s fine by them; it’s the only thing they’re here for.
They hold his gaze though, even as they ease his cock free from its fabric pouch. Let Lash say whatever he wants. He’s still helpless to look away when their mouth drops to his balls, sucking one in until the tang of sweat has coated their tongue.
They drag their mouth up his cock. With their eyes locked on his, they wet their lips and then ease the tip in. There’s a bead of moisture there, salty as it bursts across their tongue. They let their eyes fall closed as they let his cock slip deeper, nudging at the roof of their mouth, then at the back of their throat, easing a little farther with each slow nod of their head.
When they open their eyes again, he’s still watching. He won’t look away. He can’t. His hand tightens in their hair, and it’s almost funny. It’s just like Lash to think he’s in control when Arin has him right where they want him.
It doesn’t matter how he tugs at their hair or sighs or grunts or shifts his weight, they move at their own pace — steady at first, even teasing, but building as the hunger overtakes them again.
His thighs tense beside their head and his abdomen ripples above them, and they still fuck their mouth onto his cock until their jaw aches and their lips are numb. They’re hard too, a violent pulsing between their legs that grows with every pass of Lash’s cock between their lips, every breach of their throat.
They glance up again, and there he is, transfixed. He curses, blunt nails scratching gently, and more goosebumps ripple down their arms.
They can’t take it any longer. They fumble one-handed between their legs, yanking open their belt and zipper.
Their cock is hot in their hand, somehow hotter than the one in their mouth, feverish and slick. It practically jumps in their grip, twitching in time with a shivery thrust of Lash’s hips. They groan around him, lips descending again until their nose is buried in his pubic hair, damp with a combination of his sweat and Arin’s spit.
Lash curses, and one hand sits between their shoulders like he’s trying to soothe them or coax them along when they’ve already got him as deep as he’ll go. But maybe all he wants is to touch. The hand in their hair keeps slipping, trying to creep under the stiff collar of their shirt. It squeezes there at the top of their spine, suddenly spasming.
That’s all the warning they get before Lash is coming. They bury his cock as far down their throat as it will go and swallow everything.
Their hand doesn’t slow on their own cock as they finally let him go. They lean into his thigh, panting, breathing him in as they try to finish.
He won’t leave them to it. Even clumsy after his orgasm, Lash’s hands are strong, hauling Arin upward. They choose not to fight it, and they end up splayed in his lap, knees on the bench he’s seated on, trousers pulled tight across their thighs.
One of Lash’s callused hands wraps firmly around their cock, and the other holds them steady by the ass. From this angle, they’re suddenly looking down at him rather than up, and he locks drowsy eyes with them.
His hand pulls slick along the whole length of them, and he sets a pace that leaves them squirming, unable to keep their eyes open any longer. They slump against him with a groan, face buried in the crook of his neck.
Every twist of his wrist stokes the fire inside them, makes their whole body shudder. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t relent. He’s merciless, and curled up against his muscular body, Arin has a vague, scattered sense they might have been wrong to believe they had all the power here.
Then his hand slips into their hair one last time, yanks, and his mouth slams against theirs, right as he wrings their orgasm out of them. They moan straight down his throat, hips fucking helplessly into his hand.
The kiss turns lazy when they finally stop twitching. He releases their cock but holds onto their hair a little longer. When he does finally let them go, it’s with a sharp bite to their lower lip that sends another bolt of heat through their body.
Now that it’s over, there isn’t much to say. They climb out of his lap on shaky legs, tucking themself carefully back in and rearranging their clothes.
Lash hasn’t bothered to move. He’s leaning back on his hands, legs still spread shamelessly. His belly is striped with Arin’s come, which makes some animal satisfaction take hold inside them.
They’ve been here enough times they know their way around. There’s a small sink where they can wash their hands and their face and try to make themself somewhat presentable to the world outside.
Lash’s eyes follow them still. There’s satisfaction in that too, even if there shouldn’t be. Lash doesn’t want anything from them that he can’t get from any number of his fans, and he doesn’t need anything from them at all. That’s the point. That’s how it’s supposed to work.
Like he missed the memo, Lash asks, “You hungry?”
“No.”
“I could eat a horse.”
“It’s almost 11 p.m.”
“So? I’m always hungry after a fight. Then you got me sidetracked, so now I’m starving.”
“Nothing is going to be open.”
“It’s the Cursed Apple, baby. There’s always somewhere that’s open.” Arin can hear the smirk when Lash says, “Maybe not on your side of town, but around here, for sure.”
“It’s still late. I have to get home.”
“Dinner tomorrow, then,” Lash says without a beat of hesitation. For lack of anything else to say, Arin splashes water on their face. They should know better than to underestimate his ability to fill a silence. “You know,” he practically sing-songs. “If you’re so worried about competition, keeping me busy wouldn’t hurt.”
No longer able to deny what this conversation really is, Arin covers their surprise by fumbling for a hand towel to dry their face with. The least they can do is look at him while they talk. “You don’t strike me as the type to own a dinner jacket.”
Lash laughs, busy unwinding the gauze from his hands. He’s still mostly nude, all his muscles on display. “You don’t know. Bet I clean up at least as good as you get dirty.”
“But you don’t own one, do you?”
“No,” he admits. “Doesn’t have to be somewhere that nice, anyway.”
“You want to take me on a date to some cheap all-night diner?”
“Well, I didn’t call it a date,” Lash says, but his face has already turned an incriminating shade of red. Arin didn’t even know it was possible to embarrass him. “I’m offering you an opportunity to graduate from sucking my dick in a locker room to getting fucked in a proper bed, with food in between. You know, to refill the tank before I pound that cute little ass.”
“I’ll have to raincheck,” they say dryly. Already, the possibilities for Jacob Lash to humiliate them in public have started to multiply in their mind.
He scoffs, back to the task of unwrapping his hands, then stripping the last scrap of his clothing off. “Whatever. Your loss.”
He’s brushing it off already. There’s nothing Arin can do to truly penetrate that ironclad ego, not permanently, even if it’s smarting at the moment. He’ll be just fine.
Besides, it’s not like they can bring a guy like Lash to social events. He’s rude and outright embarrassing, and exactly the sort of thing that will convince everyone Arin’s worked so hard to impress that they can’t hold onto the Fairfax empire. They’ve clawed their way into this position, back into the pit of venomous snakes. They can’t risk getting distracted, can’t risk giving off any sign that they’re weak or don’t fit. Not yet.
So they don’t know why they say, “I’ll come around more.”
“Yeah?” Lash asks, prickly with his injured ego. “You can wait in line like anybody else then.”
Arin flushes, but they power through it. “No.” That has his attention, at least. “There won’t be a line, whether I’m here or not. If you can do that, I’m sure we can find you a dinner jacket.”
“Not sure I’m getting the better end of the bargain here.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Arin says.
“Alright. It’s a deal,” Lash says, though he’s surly about it. He mutters, “Better make it worth my time.” But as he turns to head to the shower, they swear they catch a glimpse of him smiling.