Chapter 10: Strip Wrestling
The house was empty.
Not just quiet—empty. The kind of empty that pressed against her ears and made her own heartbeat sound foreign. David was in New York until Thursday. The cleaning crew had come and gone yesterday. Even the dog was at the groomer's, getting some ridiculous blueberry facial that cost more than most people's car payments.
Melissa stood in the kitchen, phone in hand, reading Victor's last text for the hundredth time.
I think you wanted me to stop you. And you're mad that I didn't.
She hadn't responded. That was two days ago.
Two days of avoiding him. Two days of taking her workouts to the basement gym at six in the morning, before he was awake. Two days of eating dinner alone in her office, claiming she had work to catch up on.
Two days of lying to herself.
The truth was simpler and uglier than she wanted to admit: she hadn't stopped him because she didn't want to. She'd wanted his mouth on her. She'd wanted his hands. She'd wanted to feel him come apart under her fingers, wanted to hear him beg.
And she'd wanted to leave him there. Wanted to punish him for making her want it.
But punishment only worked if the other person cared about earning forgiveness.
She set the phone down. Poured herself a glass of wine. It was barely noon.
The gym door opened.
She heard it from the kitchen—the soft click of the latch, the creak of the hinge. Footsteps on the hardwood. She didn't turn around.
"Thought you were avoiding me," Victor said.
"I was."
"Was?"
She took a sip of wine. Still didn't turn.
"I got tired of hiding."
He came into the kitchen. She heard him set something down on the counter—his phone, maybe, or his keys. He didn't touch her. Didn't come close.
"That's good," he said. "Because I've been thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Everything's dangerous with you."
She turned.
He was wearing gray sweats and a black tank top. His hair was damp—he must have showered after his workout. There was a fresh bruise on his forearm, purple and yellow at the edges, from where she'd gripped him too hard in the shower.
She wanted to touch it.
Instead, she picked up her wine. "What have you been thinking about?"
"A rematch."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Wrestling," he said. "Like we used to. Except this time, there are stakes."
"Stakes."
"Every pin, the loser loses a piece of clothing."
She laughed. Short and sharp.
"You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
He didn't. His jaw was set. His eyes were steady. There was something different about him—something harder, sharper. The playful edge was gone.
"And if I win?" she asked.
"You won't."
"Cocky."
"Realistic."
She set her wine down. Crossed her arms. She was wearing yoga pants and a thin tank top, no bra. She could feel her nipples tighten under his gaze.
"And what do you get if you win?"
He smiled. Slow. Predatory.
"Everything."
---
The mats were already laid out when she walked into the gym.
Blue foam, six inches thick, covering the hardwood floor in the center of the room. He'd moved the benches. Cleared the space. The mirrors along the wall caught everything, doubling the two of them as they faced each other.
Victor stood on the far side, barefoot, rolling his shoulders.
"Rules," he said.
"I know the rules."
"New rules." He cracked his neck. "No closed fists. No scratching. No hair pulling."
"Scared?"
"Cautious."
She stepped onto the mat. The foam gave under her feet, soft and grippy.
"And what about the clothes?"
"Winner takes. Every pin, you lose something. Same for me."
"How many pins until someone's naked?"
He tilted his head. Considering.
"Three," he said. "Three pins and the match is over. Whatever's left comes off."
She looked at her outfit. Tank top. Yoga pants. Underwear. Three pieces—four if you counted the socks, which she didn't.
The same math worked for him. Tank. Sweats. Boxers. Socks.
Even ground.
"Deal," she said.
They circled each other.
The morning light poured through the windows, catching the dust motes suspended in the air. The house was so quiet she could hear the refrigerator humming two rooms away. Somewhere outside, a lawnmower started up, distant and irrelevant.
Victor moved first.
He was faster than she remembered. Or maybe she'd just forgotten—forgotten how quick he was, how strong. His hands closed around her wrist, but she twisted free, ducked under his arm, came up behind him. Her palm hit his shoulder blade. She pushed.
He stumbled. Caught himself. Turned.
"Good," he said.
She didn't answer. Just circled.
They grappled for two minutes without either gaining an advantage. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her breath came fast. Every time she got close, he slipped away. Every time he grabbed, she broke free.
Then he feinted left, went right, and caught her around the waist.
She went down hard.
He landed on top of her. Knees on either side of her hips. One hand pinned her shoulder to the mat.
"One," he said.
She bucked. Tried to throw him off. But he was heavier, and he knew how to use his weight. His hips pressed down, pinning her flat.
"Count it," he said.
She gritted her teeth. "One."
He stood. Offered her a hand.
She ignored it. Got up on her own.
"Tank top," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"You lost. Tank top comes off."
"That wasn't the rule."
"It was exactly the rule."
She stared at him. He stared back.
Fine.
She grabbed the hem of her tank and pulled it over her head. Tossed it to the side. The sports bra underneath was black, snug, doing its job.
Victor's eyes flicked down. Then up.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Good."
They circled again.
This time, she was angry. And anger made her sloppy.
He caught her wrist, twisted, and swept her leg. She hit the mat on her back, the wind knocked out of her.
He was on her before she could recover. His body covered hers—chest to chest, hips to hips. His hand pinned her wrist above her head.
"Two," he said.
She could feel his heartbeat through his tank. Could feel something else, too. Something hard pressing against her thigh.
"That's not—" She gasped for air. "That's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"That."
He didn't move.
"I can't help it," he said. "You're under me, half-naked, breathing hard. What did you expect?"
She swallowed.
"Two," she said.
He didn't get up immediately. Just looked at her. Then he rolled off, stood, and waited.
She stood. Hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her yoga pants. Shimmied them down her legs.
The panties underneath were black lace. Barely there. A thin strip of fabric that covered almost nothing.
Victor made a sound. Low. Involuntary.
"Like what you see?" she asked.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
They circled.
Third time.
She was faster now—she knew his patterns, knew how he moved. When he reached for her, she was ready. She caught his arm, used his momentum, and twisted. He went down.
She landed on top of him. Straddled his chest. Pinned his shoulders.
"One," she said.
He grinned. Blood on his lip—she must have hit him harder than she meant to.
"Fair," he said.
She climbed off him. He stood. Pulled his tank over his head.
His chest was bare. Golden. Sweat-slick. The muscles moved under his skin like something alive.
She wanted to lick him.
"That's one for me," she said.
"Don't get used to it."
They circled.
Fourth grapple.
He caught her by the waist, lifted her off her feet, and slammed her down. His body followed—covering, pinning, pressing. His forehead touched hers. His breath was hot on her mouth.
"Two," he said.
"Fuck you."
"Maybe later."
She couldn't breathe. Not because of his weight—because of the way he was looking at her. Like he wanted to eat her alive.
"Two," she whispered.
He stood. Shucked his sweats.
Black boxers. Thick outline. Precum darkening the fabric at the tip.
Her mouth watered.
"You're staring," he said.
"So are you."
They circled.
Fifth grapple.
Sixth.
She pinned him again—got his shoulders down, counted it out. He lost the boxers.
She lost her bra.
They stood across from each other, breathing hard, wearing nothing but lace and cotton. The mirrors showed everything. Her nipples, hard and dark. The wet spot on her panties. His cock, thick and angry, twitching with every heartbeat.
"One more," he said.
"Winner takes all."
"Winner takes everything."
They circled.
She was tired. He was tired. But he was also determined. She could see it in his eyes—the shift, the settling. He wasn't playing anymore.
He lunged.
She dodged.
He caught her ankle.
She fell.
He was on her in a second. His body covered hers—chest to chest, hips to hips, his cock pressed hard against her thigh through the thin cotton. His hands pinned her wrists above her head.
She tried to buck him off. Couldn't.
She tried to twist. Couldn't.
She tried to move her hips, to slide out from under him, and he pressed down harder. His cock slid against her leg. He groaned.
"Give up," he said.
"Never."
"You can't win."
"I can try."
"I don't want you to try." His voice was rough. Broken. "I want you to stop. I want you to stop fighting me. I want you to stop pretending."
She stopped moving.
The silence stretched between them. Thick. Heavy. She could hear her own heartbeat, could feel his. They were beating in sync.
The mirrors showed everything. Her face, flushed. Her chest, heaving. His body, covering hers. Two people who were done pretending.
"You left me on the floor," he said.
"You deserved it."
"I would have done anything you asked."
"I know."
"So why?"
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were wet.
"Because I wanted to," she said. "And I'm not allowed to want things."
"Who says?"
"I do."
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked at her. And slowly, incrementally, he began to shift his weight. Not to get up—to lower himself. To press closer. His mouth found her ear.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
She didn't.
"Tell me you don't want this."
She didn't.
"Tell me you haven't been thinking about me every single night since that shower. Tell me you haven't been touching yourself and imagining it was my hand."
Her breath hitched.
"Tell me," he said, "and I'll get off you right now. I'll walk out of this gym and never touch you again."
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
And then she lifted her head and kissed him.