Chapter 8: The Champion's Submission
The flight to Vegas was a blur of pressurized silence and stolen touches. Rhea slept, her head on Cameron’s shoulder, one hand possessively on his thigh. Becky sat across the aisle, staring out the window at the endless black, speaking to no one. The energy between them was a live wire, severed and sparking. Cameron felt it all—the exhaustion, the surreal triumph, the low hum of dread. When they landed, Rhea simply said, “Penthouse. Two hours,” before melting into a waiting town car with Becky, leaving Cameron to find his own way.
The suite was everything he imagined and nothing he could relax into. It was vast, coldly luxurious, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed the Strip in all its garish, pulsing glory, a cascade of neon against the desert night. He showered in the rainfall shower, the hot water failing to sluice away the memory of Becky’s sobs or the taste of Rhea’s power. He wrapped a towel around his waist and poured a whiskey from the minibar, its bite doing little to settle him.
He didn’t hear the door open. The suite was too big, the carpet too thick. He only knew he wasn’t alone when he saw her reflection in the dark window.
Jade Cargill stood just inside the living area, backlit by the hallway light. She wore nothing but her TBS Championship belt, the gold plate glinting against the smooth, powerful planes of her waist. Her body was a masterpiece of sculpted muscle, shadow and definition carved under the ambient glow. Her expression was one of cool, amused dominion.
“Heard you were the new ride,” she said, her voice a low, confident thrum. She let the door swing shut behind her, plunging them into the moody light of the city. “Saw you trailing after Ripley like a lost puppy. Thought I’d see what all the fuss is about.”
Cameron turned slowly, setting his glass down. The towel felt absurdly flimsy. “Jade.”
“That’s ‘Champ’ to you,” she corrected, not unkindly, but with absolute authority. She strode forward, the belt clicking softly with each step. She stopped inches from him, her height nearly matching his. She smelled like coconut oil and ambition. Her eyes traveled down his body, lingering on the towel. “Rhea’s into sharing, but she’s not into announcing it. Consider this a private viewing.”
She reached out and flicked the knot of his towel. It loosened, fell open. He made no move to catch it. It pooled at his feet.
“Hmm,” she murmured, her gaze assessing him. Her hand came up, not to touch him, but to trace a line in the air an inch from his chest. “You don’t look like much. But Becky’s been walking funny for two days, and Bayley won’t shut up about your mouth.” A smirk played on her lips. “So, I’m here to collect. On my terms.”
She unbuckled the championship belt with a deliberate, metallic rasp. She let it fall to the plush carpet with a weighty thud. “On your knees. Now.”
It was a direct order, delivered with the unshakeable certainty of someone used to being obeyed. Cameron felt a flicker of that old, reactive heat. But it was different now. The lessons of the locker room were fresh. He didn’t move.
“No,” he said, his voice quiet.
Jade’s eyebrow arched. The smirk didn’t fade; it hardened. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.” He took a half-step forward, invading the space she had claimed. “You don’t get to walk in here and demand my submission. Not anymore.”
Her laughter was short, a sharp bark of surprise. “You think you have a choice?”
“I know I do.”
He saw the decision flash in her eyes—to fight, to enforce her will physically. She was more than capable. But before she could act, he moved. It wasn’t an attack; it was a reclamation. His hands shot out, not to strike, but to grasp. He grabbed her wrists, his fingers encircling the dense bone and corded muscle, and spun her around.
She was strong, impossibly so, and she resisted with a grunt of effort, her body twisting against his. It was like trying to hold back a turbine. But he used her momentum, driving her forward, not toward the bed, but toward the wall of glass overlooking the city. He pinned her there, her front against the cool window, her hands splayed flat on either side of her head, trapped under his.
Her breath fogged the glass. “Get the fuck off me,” she snarled, testing his grip. He held firm, his body pressed along the incredible length of her back, feeling every ridge of muscle, every tremble of contained power.
“You came for a show,” he whispered into her ear, his voice rough. “You’re going to get one. But you’re not directing it.”
He released one of her wrists and his hand slid down the sweat-slick channel of her spine, over the perfect swell of her ass. He squeezed, the flesh firm and unyielding under his palm. She bucked against him, a violent heave, but he was ready, his knee nudging between her legs, forcing her stance wider.
“You’re gonna fucking regret this,” she hissed, but her protest lacked its earlier conviction. There was a hitch in her breathing.
“Doubt it.”
His fingers found her from behind, delving through coarse curls into wet, shocking heat. She was already soaked. The revelation was a potent thrill. All that dominance, a façade over a ready, aching need. He pushed two fingers inside her, and her head dropped forward against the glass with a dull thud. A choked moan escaped her.
“That’s it,” he said, working his fingers in a cruel, curling rhythm, searching for the spot that would unmake her. He found it. Her whole body jerked, a seismic spasm that rattled the window. “All that talk, and you’re dripping for it just like the others.”
“Shut up,” she gasped, but she was pushing back onto his hand, her hips making tiny, desperate circles.
He withdrew his fingers, slick and gleaming in the neon light. He brought them to his mouth, tasted her—a sharp, clean flavor, different from the others. He used that wetness to slick himself, then pressed the head of his cock against her entrance.
“This is what you wanted, right?” he growled, not entering her, just applying pressure. “To see what I’ve got?”
“Just fuck me, you asshole,” she begged, the words ragged, her pride in tatters against the glass.
He drove into her in one long, brutal stroke. She cried out, a sound of pure, shattered sensation. He filled her utterly, the fit so tight it was almost painful. He held there, buried to the hilt, feeling her internal muscles flutter wildly around him.
Then he began to move. He fucked her with a punishing, rhythmic intensity, each thrust slamming her firm body against the unyielding window. The neon signs—Caesars, Bellagio, the fake Eiffel Tower—flashed against their joined forms, painting them in cycles of electric blue and violent pink. Her reflection was a masterpiece of undone arrogance: eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a silent scream, perfect features contorted in pleasure.
He set a ruthless pace. His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples of her lower back. The sound was obscene—the wet slap of skin, her ragged gasps, the faint creak of the glass under their weight.
“Who’s the champ now?” he grunted, snapping his hips forward.
Her answer was a broken stream of nonsense. “Oh god… right there… don’t stop… fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
He reached around, his hand sliding over the hard plane of her stomach, finding the swollen bud of her clit. He pressed down, circling it with rough, insistent fingers. That was all it took.
Her orgasm detonated through her with the force of a closed fist. It wasn’t a surrender; it was a systemic collapse. Her powerful legs shook violently, nearly giving way. A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat, echoing in the cavernous suite. She clenched around him like a vise, milking him, pulling him deeper into the convulsing heat of her.
It ripped his own climax from him. With a final, deep plunge, he came, spurting into her with a groan that was half her name, half a curse. He pulsed inside her, his vision swimming with the kaleidoscope of lights beyond the glass.
They stayed like that for a long minute, braced against the window, both shuddering with the aftershocks. Slowly, he softened and slipped out. A slick trail followed. Jade slumped, her forehead resting against the cool pane, her breath coming in ragged, fogging gusts.
He stepped back, the reality of what he’d just done—pinning the most physically dominant woman he’d ever seen against a window in a Vegas penthouse and fucking her into submission—washing over him like a cold wave.
Jade slowly pushed herself upright. She turned around, leaning against the glass for support. Her face was slick with sweat, her expression unreadable. She looked at him, her gaze traveling over his spent body, then down to the championship belt discarded on the floor.
She didn’t speak. She just walked past him, her stride less certain than when she entered, and picked up the belt. She buckled it slowly, deliberately, around her waist. The gold settled against her skin, a reclaiming of her identity. She walked to the door, paused with her hand on the handle, and looked back at him.
A slow, genuine smile touched her lips—not one of dominance, but of profound, satiated respect.
“Okay,” she said simply, her voice hoarse. “I see it now.”
Then she was gone, leaving him alone in the silent, neon-drenched suite, the smell of sex and her coconut oil hanging in the air, and the distant wail of a siren threading up from the streets below. The city pulsed, indifferent. He knew this wasn't over. It was just another layer, another claim staked in a territory he was only beginning to understand. Rhea would be here soon. And she would know. She always knew.
She always knew.
The door clicked shut behind Jade with a sound of finality that rang hollow in the expensive air. Cameron stood there, adrift in the aftermath, the ghost of her coconut scent and the phantom pressure of her body still vibrating in his muscles. He looked at his own reflection in the dark glass, a man silhouetted against a city of counterfeit light. He was about to turn, to seek the numbness of the minibar again, when the door handle turned once more.
It was Jade. She hadn’t left. She stood on the threshold, her championship belt a solemn authority against her naked skin, her expression unreadable. The cool arrogance was gone, replaced by something more complex, more heated.
“You’re not done yet,” Cameron said, the words leaving him not as a question, but as a flat, undeniable truth.
Before she could form a reply, he crossed the space. His hand snapped out, not rough but unequivocal, and closed around her wrist. Her skin was fever-hot. She didn’t resist as he pulled her back into the suite, away from the door, away from escape. Her eyes held his, a challenge flickering back to life within their dark depths.
He guided her, not to the window this time, but to the vast expanse of the bed. The silk duvet was a deep, bloodless grey. He pushed her onto it. She landed with a soft bounce, the gold plate of her belt digging into her abdomen. She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him.
“You think you’ve conquered something?” she asked, her voice lower now, a taunt woven with a new thread of curiosity.
“I know I haven’t,” he said, kneeling on the floor at the edge of the bed. His hands slid under her powerful thighs, pulling her towards him until her ass was on the precipice of the mattress. He spread her legs wide, revealing her utterly. She was glistening, swollen from their first taking, and he could smell the sharp, intimate scent of their mixed sweat and sex. “Conquering implies an end. This is just another beginning.”
He didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and dragged his tongue through her soaked folds in one long, flat stroke. Her taste exploded on his tongue—musky, salty, alive. She gasped, her head falling back. He zeroed in on her clit, that hard, eager pearl, and sucked it into his mouth. He applied relentless, circular pressure with his tongue, his lips sealing around her.
“Oh, fuck,” Jade moaned, her hands flying to his head. Her fingers didn’t push him away; they twisted in his hair, holding him to her. “Right there… god, yes…”
He fucked her with his tongue, plunging it deep inside her, then returning to torment her clit. He used his hands to spread her wider, to expose her completely to his ravaging mouth. He was brutal and thorough, reducing the powerful athlete to a writhing, pleading thing. Her thighs trembled around his ears. Her curses dissolved into a continuous, broken stream of yes, yes, yes.
He felt her orgasm building, a tectonic tightening in her belly. He redoubled his efforts, sucking harder, flicking faster. She came with a soundless scream, her back arching clear off the bed, her body bowing in a perfect arc of tension before collapsing back into the silk. Waves of contractions pulsed against his tongue. He lapped at her, gentler now, drawing out each shudder until she lay spent, breathing in ragged gulps.
He rose from his knees, his own need a painful throb against his stomach. He looked down at her. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused.
“Turn over,” he commanded, his voice gravel.
She blinked slowly, processing the order. For a second, he saw the defiance, the instinct to rebel. Then it vanished, replaced by a deep, willing exhaustion. She rolled over, pushing herself up onto her hands and knees. The championship belt was askew, digging into her hip. He unbuckled it and let it fall to the carpet with a heavy thud. The sight of her, utterly bare and positioned for him, was more potent than any gold.
He spat into his palm, slicking himself. He placed the head of his cock against her other entrance, the tight, clenched star he hadn’t touched before. She flinched at the contact, a full-body shudder.
“Relax,” he murmured, not pushing yet, just applying steady pressure.
“It’s… a lot,” she breathed, her forehead pressed to the duvet.
“I know. Take it.”
He pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion. Her body resisted, then yielded with a soft, tearing gasp from her. He seated himself fully, buried in an impossible, burning tightness. He stayed there, letting her adjust, feeling her internal muscles spasm around him.
Then he began to move. He set a hard, deep rhythm, each thrust a deliberate conquest. Her moans were muffled by the bedding at first, then grew louder, more desperate. He gripped her hips, his fingers surely leaving bruises on her flawless skin.
“Cameron,” she whimpered, the word torn from her.
“Say it again.”
“Cameron!” she cried out, the sound raw and full of awe. “Please, don’t stop… fucking own me…”
He drove into her, his own climax coiling at the base of his spine. The intensity of her submission, the raw physicality of taking this powerhouse in her most vulnerable place, unleashed something feral in him. His pace became punishing.
“Come for me,” he grunted, his control fraying.
As if on command, her second orgasm shattered her. She screamed his name, a raw, echoing “CAMERON!” that filled the suite. Her body convulsed, clenching around him so tightly it was almost painful. That final, seizing pressure pulled him over the edge. He came with a guttural roar, pumping into her, his vision blurring at the edges.
He collapsed over her back, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in broken synchrony. The suite was silent except for their heaving breaths. He softened, slipped out of her. She collapsed fully onto the bed, face down, a map of their violence written in the red marks on her skin.
The soft click of the suite door opening was the only warning.
Cameron looked up, still on his knees on the bed. Rhea stood in the doorway, backlit from the hallway. She wore only a long, black trench coat, belted at the waist. Her purple hair was damp, as if she’d just showered. Her eyes took in the scene: Jade prone and ravished, Cameron kneeling above her, both of them glistening and spent.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Rhea’s face. She didn’t speak. She simply untied the belt of her coat and let it fall open. She shrugged it off her shoulders. It pooled on the floor behind her. She was completely naked underneath, her body a pale, powerful sculpture in the neon gloom.
“Busy night,” she said, her voice a low purr.
She walked into the room, her movements liquid and assured. She came to the side of the bed and ran a hand through Cameron’s sweat-damp hair. Her touch was possessive. Her other hand landed on Jade’s lower back, fingertips tracing the curve of her spine. Jade stirred, turning her head to the side to look.
“He’s something else, isn’t he?” Rhea said to Jade, her thumb stroking Cameron’s scalp.
Jade could only manage a hoarse, affirming sound.
Rhea’s eyes met Cameron’s. “You’re not tired, are you?”
In answer, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her onto the bed with them. She laughed, a low, thrilling sound, and went willingly. She didn’t lie down. She walked on her knees across the mattress to the floor-to-ceiling window. She placed her hands high on the glass, leaning forward, presenting herself to him—and to the endless, glittering city below.
“Show her how you fuck me,” Rhea said, glancing over her shoulder. Her expression was one of fierce invitation.
Cameron moved off Jade. He approached Rhea, his re-awakened need a stark, painful throb. He positioned himself behind her, his hands on her narrow waist. He didn’t tease. He guided himself into her with a single, deep thrust. She was already wet, open for him. She cried out, a sharp, happy sound, and pushed back against him.
He fucked her hard against the glass, the pace relentless from the first stroke. The window trembled faintly with their impact. Her reflection was a blur of pleasure, her mouth open, her eyes screwed shut. Jade, recovering, pushed herself up onto her elbows to watch, her own eyes dark with fascination.
“Join in,” Cameron panted to Jade, not breaking his rhythm with Rhea.
Jade didn’t need to be told twice. She crawled across the bed, her body moving with a renewed, predatory grace. She positioned herself in front of Rhea, on her knees, and captured Rhea’s mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. Rhea moaned into it, her hands leaving the glass to tangle in Jade’s hair.
Cameron watched, the sight of the two powerful women kissing while he pounded into one of them from behind sending a new, electric current through him. He reached around Rhea’s body, his hand finding Jade’s breast, pinching her nipple hard. Jade broke the kiss with a gasp, arching into his touch.
He was dominating them both now, the orchestrator of their pleasure. His thrusts into Rhea became sharper, deeper. He slid his hand from Jade’s breast down her stomach, into the wet heat between her legs. He found her clit, swollen and sensitive, and rubbed tight, firm circles.
“Oh, god,” Jade moaned, her head falling forward onto Rhea’s shoulder.
“Come for me,” Cameron commanded, his voice rough with strain. “Both of you. Now.”
The dual stimulation was too much. Rhea came first, her body seizing around him, her internal muscles clamping down in rhythmic pulses. Her cry was muffled against Jade’s skin. The feel of her climax, the sight of Jade shuddering under his fingers, tipped Jade over the edge immediately after. She convulsed, a silent, breathless orgasm that left her shaking.
Their simultaneous surrender shattered his last shred of control. He drove into Rhea one final, devastating time and emptied himself into her with a broken groan, his vision whiting out. He stayed there, buried inside her, braced against the glass, as the neon lights of Las Vegas bled into the darkness behind his eyes.
The three of them slumped against the window, a tangled, sweating heap of limbs. The only sound was their synced, ragged breathing fogging the glass. Rhea turned her head, her cheek against the cool surface, and looked at Cameron. Her smile was exhausted, triumphant, and utterly possessive.
“Welcome to the top,” she breathed, her words barely audible.