Page 29 of Lord of Obsession

I have the sweetest of memories of fucking his pretty face, it was even better than I had imagined with all the gagging and drooling. It was hard for him, very hard, to take all of me and that I enjoy. He makes a very obedient little slut and I like that.

My security detail blends with the crowd, their careful positioning creating a net thatwill push him exactly where I want him. The text I sent was simple: coordinates, a time, and a reminder of the photos I still hold. His response came three hours later—just one word: "Fine."

But that's all I need. His pride won't let him ignore a direct challenge.

The regulars gather around the ring's edges, money changing hands as fighters warm up in shadowy corners. These matches run on old rules: no referees, no weight classes, and no limits except what the crowd's appetite demands. Blood darkens the concrete in places, telling stories of victories and failures that no amount of cleaning can erase.

A door creaks somewhere above, letting in a slice of moonlight before slamming shut. Boots on metal stairs, then Rafael appears at the bottom. He's ditched the lawyer costume for dark jeans and a black shirt that can't quite hide the warrior's grace in his movements. His eyes scan the space with practiced efficiency—exits, threats, advantages—before landing on me.

Just the sight of his pretty face brings back the memory of how much of a mess it lookedwhen I was done with it. How good his lips looked stretched tight around my cock.

"Quite a change from your usual study spots." I push off the wall I've been leaning against, enjoying how his shoulders tighten at my approach. "No color-coded notes down here. Just pure instinct and earned pain."

He maintains his distance as I circle him, but his body betrays everything his silence tries to hide. Every muscle screams awareness of my movement, his old combat training surfacing despite his best efforts to bury it. The crowd parts around us, sensing something electric building between predators in their midst.

"Why am I here?" His voice carries that slight accent he can't quite hide when his control slips.

I smile, letting him see sharp teeth. "Because you need to remember what you really are." My hand finds his shoulder, feeling his heat through cotton. "And I'm going to show you."

The next fighter steps into the ring, bare-chested and battle-scarred. The dim light catches old wounds as he raises his fists,inviting challengers. The crowd's energy shifts, hunger rising as blood scents the air.

"Watch carefully." I keep my grip on his shoulder, making him face the violence he's tried so hard to forget. "This is our world. The one you're pretending doesn't exist while you hide behind legal briefs and classroom discussions."

The fight starts with brutal efficiency. No ceremony, no rules, just pure animal need to dominate. Flesh meets flesh with wet sounds that echo off concrete walls. Rafael's pulse jumps beneath my fingers as the first fighter goes down, blood painting the floor in abstract patterns.

"Your hands remember this." I lean closer, the words for him and him alone. "The impact of bone against bone. The satisfaction of a perfectly landed strike." My fingers trail down his arm, finding old scars hidden beneath careful facades. "Tell me you don't miss it."

He doesn't answer, but his breathing changes, growing deeper as another fighter falls. The crowd's roar builds around us, but I focus on how his body responds to each display of dominance. How his weight shiftsautomatically into a fighting stance despite years of pretending at civility.

"Your turn next." The words hit him like a physical blow. I feel him start to pull away, but my grip tightens. "Unless you're too afraid to show these people exactly what a Valenti heir can do."

His eyes meet mine, dark with something beyond simple fury. "I don't do this anymore."

"Liar." I drag my fingers up his spine, feeling him shiver. "You do this every day in your mind. Every time you check exits and catalog threats. Every time you stop yourself from responding to disrespect with violence." I pause as another fighter hits the bloodied concrete. "The only difference is, down here we're honest about what we are."

The fight ends with a wet crack and a cheer from the crowd. Blood drips from the victor's knuckles as he helps his opponent up—honor among wolves. Rafael watches with carefully controlled features, but I catch every tell: the way his fingers flex, how his breath catches at particularly skilled moves, the hunger he can't quite hide.

"Time to stop pretending." I step back,stripping off my jacket. "Show me what's under all that polish."

I can sense him submitting to my request, again. This is the one fight I’ve been so desperate to have.

The crowd forms a loose circle as Rafael steps into the ring, tension rolling off him in waves. He moves like someone who's done this before, despite his attempts to hide it. His stance shifts automatically to account for the uneven concrete, the poor lighting, and every variable that marks the difference between victory and defeat.

I shrug off my jacket, letting him see the raw power I usually keep hidden beneath designer fabric. His eyes track the movement, cataloging my reach and muscle mass with mechanical precision. The space between us charges with electric possibility as I mirror his position.

"First blood or surrender?" I ask, though we both know this fight won't end with either. This is about something deeper, something primal that lives in both our veins.

His response comes in the form of an attack: fast, precise, and perfectly timed. I barely deflect the strike, and his follow-up connects with satisfying force. The impact travels up my arm, igniting nerve endings that sing with long-denied pleasure. He responds with fluid grace, turning the strike into momentum that carries him inside my guard. His counter-attack comes fast and precise—textbook perfect, betraying years of training he can't erase.

The crowd fades to white noise as we dance across blood-stained concrete. Each movement tells a story of violence bred into both our bones: the way he shifts his weight between strikes, how his dark eyes track my center of mass, the perfect economy of motion that no amount of legal education could disguise. Beautiful. Fucking beautiful.

"Stop holding back." I drive my knee toward his ribs, forcing him to block. The defensive move flows like water, pure instinct taking over. "Show them what you really are."

His eyes flash dark gold under the industrial lights. Sweat darkens his shirt, turning black cotton translucent against skin marked with scars I want to trace with my tongue. His next strike carries more power, more intent. His mask of civility cracks further with each exchange.

Blood runs hot down my chin from a split lip. The taste of copper fills my mouth as I smile, savage and wanting. "Better. But still not the killer I know lives inside you." I circle left, testing his defenses. "What would your professors think if they could see you now?"

The taunt lands. His control slips just enough, just right. The next combination comes lightning fast: jab, cross, hook, each strike flowing into the next with deadly precision. I catch the last one and use his momentum to slam him against the nearest support column. Concrete dust falls like snow as the impact shakes the building's bones.

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