Chapter 1: Lust & Leather: The Opening Bout
The bass was a physical thing, a thick wave that vibrated up through the soles of Bethany’s boots and into her bones. The air in the converted warehouse was hazy, swirling with neon from the makeshift light rigs overhead—hot pinks and electric blues that cut through the cigarette smoke and caught the shimmer of thousands of sequins on a hundred different outfits. The crowd was a single, breathing animal, pressed tight around the black rubber ring, their energy a palpable heat.
Bethany cracked her neck, rolling her shoulders. She could feel the eyes on her, a familiar pressure that ignited something competitive and bright in her chest.
“Looking a little tense, Bombshell.”
Polianna’s voice was a smooth purr from the shadowed entry curtain. She emerged like smoke, the intricate black lace of her bodysuit doing absolutely nothing to conceal the generous curves beneath. Fishnets climbed her legs, vanishing under the lace, and her dark eyes were lined with kohl, catching the light with a predatory glint.
Bethany shot her a sharp, white smile. “Just eager to get this over with, Polly. Big exam tomorrow. Can’t be out too late.”
“Oh, we won’t be out late,” Polianna said, slinking closer, her heels clicking on the concrete. She ran a finger along the top rope. “This won’t take long at all.”
The announcer, a gaunt man in a sparkly waistcoat, grabbed a battered microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen and everyone beautiful in between… are you ready?!”
The roar was instantaneous, a wall of sound that made the metal rafters hum.
“In this corner… the reigning provocateur, the mistress of mesmerism… ‘The Seductress’ POLIANNA SPARKS!”
Polianna flowed through the ropes with boneless grace, landing in a low crouch before rising slowly, arms spread as if gathering the crowd’s whistles and catcalls to herself. She blew a kiss toward a row of particularly vocal guys in the front.
“And in this corner… the all-American assault, the captain of chaos… ‘The Bombshell’ BETHANY RICHARDSON!”
Bethany went for power. She hopped up onto the apron, grabbed the top rope, and vaulted over, landing squarely on both feet with a slap that echoed. She pumped a fist, her blonde ponytail swinging, and the crowd answered. Her blue eyes scanned the sea of faces, finding the energy, feeding off it. Her red, sequined crop top and impossibly short silver shorts glittered like a disco ball under the lights.
They met in the center of the ring. The ref, looking bored, mumbled the rules they all knew by heart. No closed fists. No weapons. Submission or pin.
“Make it good,” Polianna whispered, her smile feline.
“Always do,” Bethany shot back.
The bell clanged.
The circling was a dance. Polianna moved with a slow, hypnotic sway, her eyes locked on Bethany’s. Bethany stayed light on her feet, knees bent, arms loose. She feinted a grapple; Polianna flowed backward, laughing.
“Scared to touch me?”
“Just planning my points of contact,” Bethany said.
It was Polianna who struck first, surprisingly fast. She darted in, not for a hold, but to trail her nails down Bethany’s toned arm. A shiver, totally involuntary, raced over Bethany’s skin. The crowd ohhhhed.
“Point for me,” Polianna breathed.
Bethany’s jaw tightened. Game on.
She shot in, tackling Polianna around the waist with the solid force of a linebacker. They hit the mat, Bethany on top, the impact driving the air from Polianna’s lungs in a soft oomph. Bethany wrestled for control, trying to trap a flailing arm, but Polianna wasn’t fighting the hold—she was squirming against it, her body undulating, the friction of lace on skin creating a heat that was completely at odds with the combat.
“Comfy?” Polianna gasped, her face inches away. Her perfume was jasmine and something darker.
“Getting there.”
Bethany shifted her weight, aiming to roll Polianna onto her stomach. But as she moved, Polianna hooked a fishnet-clad leg around Bethany’s thigh, locking them together. With a sharp, sensuous twist, she reversed their positions. Now Bethany was on her back, the bright lights blurring above her, the weight of the other woman settling on her hips.
Polianna leaned down, her dark hair curtaining their faces. “You wrestle like you cheer,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the crowd. “All pomp, no circumstance.” One hand pinned Bethany’s wrist to the mat. The other drifted, feather-light, across Bethany’s ribs, tracing the line where her crop top met her skin.
Bethany bucked, a surge of pure athletic power, but Polianna rode the motion, grinding down with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. A wave of sensation, blunt and hot, shot through Bethany. She froze for a split second, her breath catching. A triumphant smile touched Polianna’s lips.
That smile was a mistake. It broke the spell.
Bethany stopped trying to push her off. Instead, she arched her back, offering a fraction more contact, and saw Polianna’s eyes widen in surprise. In that moment of distraction, Bethany tore her wrist free and snapped her head forward, not to headbutt, but to bury her face in the curve of Polianna’s neck. Her lips grazed the sweat-damp skin, her breath hot.
Polianna shuddered.
Bethany exploited the reaction. She wrapped her legs around Polianna’s waist in a scissors hold and used the momentum to roll them again. This time, she didn’t just pin. She settled, her body pressed flush against Polianna’s back, one arm snaking around her throat in a sleeper hold, the other hand splayed possessively on Polianna’s stomach, holding her close.
“Pomp enough for you?” Bethany hissed into her ear. She could feel Polianna’s heart hammering against her own chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the music pumping through the space.
Polianna strained, her fingers clawing at the arm around her neck. She tried to push back, to create space, but Bethany held her tight, the pressure of the embrace as intimate as it was restrictive. A low, frustrated sound vibrated in Polianna’s throat. It didn’t sound like pain.
The crowd was on its feet, a unified roar of anticipation. Bethany tightened the hold, millimeter by millimeter. Polianna’s struggles began to lose their precision, becoming more writhing than wrestling. Her head lolled back against Bethany’s shoulder, her breathing growing ragged. Bethany adjusted her grip, her hand sliding lower on Polianna’s abdomen, feeling the taut muscles quiver beneath the lace.
Just as Polianna’s body seemed to go pliant, a heavy, jarring thud against the ring apron shattered the moment.
A massive man in a tank top, his neck thicker than his head, glared up at them. Two other large figures flanked him by the entrance curtain, their postures all business.
“Game’s over, girls,” the man by the ring grunted, his voice cutting through the noise. “Polianna Sparks. You need to come with us. Your brother wants to talk.”
All the seductive heat drained from Polianna’s face, replaced by a pallor that was visible even under the garish lights. Her fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, but it was the wrong kind. She went utterly still.
Bethany’s hold loosened in surprise. Polianna scrambled away from her, crouching on the mat like a cornered animal, her eyes wide and fixed on the men. The crowd’s cheers morphed into confused murmurs.
“I’m not done with my match,” Polianna said, but her voice lacked its earlier purr. It was thin, strained.
“You’re done,” the man stated. It wasn’t a threat; it was a fact.
Bethany rose to her knees, looking from Polianna’s terrified face to the impassive men. The adrenaline of the match was still coursing through her, now mixed with a sharp, protective spike. This wasn’t part of the show.
She stood up, placing herself slightly between Polianna and the edge of the ring near the man. “Back off,” Bethany said, her captain’s voice ringing out clear and commanding. “She’s in the middle of something.”
The man’s cold eyes slid to Bethany. He gave her glittering outfit a dismissive once-over. “Stay out of it, cheerleader. This is family business.”
He looked past her, his gaze locking onto Polianna. “Now. Or we come in and get you. Your choice.”
The silence that followed was louder than the music had ever been.