Page 8 of Bound by Love
“Let’s arm wrestle. If I win, you lose that attitude and raise your hands up in the air, declaring I’m the champion. If you win, I will not only concede that you are the champion, but will kiss Brie’s scar as a sign you were right all along.”
Rytsar smirked. “Are you sure?” He pumped his right arm, his muscles bulging impressively. “I’m no American pussy.”
“Neither am I,” Master Anderson replied, rubbing his hands together. “Let the battle begin.”
When he turned and started toward the kitchen, Rytsar handed Brie the rest of the whoopee cushions he’d been hiding behind his back and whispered, “Donotlet him see them.”
Brie looked around for a place to hide them as she was heading down the hallway and stepped into the first room she passed. Trying not to giggle, she stuffed them in his washing machine and quickly caught up with the two Doms.
The men were in full competition mode. Before they had even made it to the kitchen table, Master Anderson had ripped off his shirt.
They sat at the corner of the table, facing each other, wearing grim looks of determination.
“Young Brie will do the honors of starting the match,” Master Anderson informed them.
Brie was afraid Rytsar might hurt his ribs by doing this and warned him, “I don’t think you should do this.”
“Begin the match,” Rytsar insisted.
Despite her misgivings, Brie placed her hands over their clasped ones, making sure neither started before she officially counted down. She could feel the tension in their fists, their muscles tensed and ready as they waited for the war of muscles to begin.
“I’m going to count down from three and let go. Are you ready?”
“Da.”
Master Anderson gave her a charming smile. “I was born ready, darlin’.”
“Three…two…one!” She lifted her hands and the battle was on.
Both men stared at each other intensely, looking for weakness in the other as they gritted their teeth and channeled all their strength into beating the other.
Brie squealed with excitement, cheering for both as she circled the table. Master Anderson and Rytsar were both stubborn, neither wanting to lose. After a few minutes, the strain was beginning to show as perspiration showed on Rytsar’s forehead.
Brie was afraid of the strain he was putting on his broken ribs and told him, “I think you should stop.”
“Nyet,” he growled through gritted teeth.
Rytsar continued to grunt and growl, unwilling to relinquish his hold even as his body strained under the pressure. Somehow, he took the lead.
Inch by inch, he forced Master Anderson’s hand down to the table, pinning it.
Rytsar gave him a self-satisfied smirk afterward. “You have something to say?”
Master Anderson sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “Well, I guess a bet’s a bet.”
“Da.”
Master Anderson smiled charmingly as he raised his hands in the air. “You, Anton Durov, are the champion—this time.” He then held out his hand to Brie. She walked over, and he took her wrist, placing a gentle kiss on the scar left from her bloodbond with Rytsar. It was so sweet, it made her heart flutter.
Master Anderson then tipped an imaginary hat at the Russian. “Since you proved a worthy opponent”—he nodded toward the back of the house—“I willnotcall the cops for trespassing, but I’d still like to know what the hell you were doing in my home.”
“That was not part of the deal,” Rytsar informed him, getting up slowly. “Let’s go,radost moya. We need to let this cowboy lick his wounds.”
Master Anderson held out his hand to Rytsar. “So, we are friends again—yes?”
Rytsar took his hand. “We were always friends, even when I did not care for you.”
Master Anderson chuckled. “Same here, partner.”
