26. Dom

CHAPTER 26

DOM

"Bo Hoyt looks different in person," Cam whispers next to me. "The pictures don't really do his similarities to Sid the Sloth justice."

I cough to cover up the snort of laughter that startles out of me. On the other side of me, Dwayne's shoulders shake. It isn't necessarily the most mature or professional way to behave at the official weigh-in, but then again, neither is walking in with an entourage of young women wearing tight t-shirts so tiny their boobs hang out the bottom, each of them with a letter of Hoyt's last name. Dwayne and I were already forced to hold our laughter when Cam pointed out that the girls weren't even standing in the right order, so instead of spelling HOYT, they spelled YOTH. Which, as Cam so eloquently points out, happens to rhyme with sloth.

Because the event is televised, there's a lot of standing around waiting. Finally, we're both announced and brought out on stage. Hoyt is called first, announced as the winner of multiple world championships, boasting an impressive record of wins and knockouts that surpass my own. I have to remind myself that he's had an extra ten years of fighting under his belt to earn those titles, whereas I've been out of the game. Cam slips his hand into mine and gives it a small squeeze just before the announcer calls my name.

"And now, returning to the ring for his highly anticipated comeback, the reigning undisputed champion, six-time world champion, with the highest win and knockout record during his tenure— DOMENICK CONNOR!!! "

I return Cam's squeeze and straighten my spine, walking out and taking my place next to Hoyt as the roar of applause continues. We pose for a picture, holding up our fists in a fighting stance. I cut my eyes at Cam standing offstage with Dwayne and shoot him a wink.

Hoyt huffs an obnoxious laugh. "You're fucking kidding me," he drawls under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. "Not gonna lie, I thought for sure those photos were doctored or that maybe your girl was a little on the masculine side, but Dom Connor is really fucking a dude. Holy shit. Must be some kind of ass to turn a champ like you, or maybe you couldn't get any good pussy anymore since your girl left you for a taste of this prime white meat."

"I like a bit more challenge than someone else's fame-seeking leftovers," I say, facing him for the handshake and holding out my hand, a cocky smile to rival his plastered to my face. "But I hope you two are very happy together."

Hoyt's face turns almost as red as his hair. Both of us take a turn standing on the scale to be weighed—his 225 to my 236. Then we face the cameras again for a handshake photo, but Hoyt is still glaring daggers at me, looking like he might not want to wait to punch me. I raise my eyebrows, reminding him what he's supposed to do now. Instead of shaking my hand, Hoyt spits on the ground, narrowly missing my shoe, mutters a slur loud enough for the announcer's microphone to pick up, and storms off.

Facing the cameras, I smile and shrug, showing all the confidence and self-assuredness they expect from me. Weirdly, the interaction actually made me feel more confident. Knowing it’s too easy to get into Hoyt's head, but he can't crack me. I shake the hand of the announcer, producer, and host before waving to the crowd and making my way off stage. Dwayne knows the deal. We need to get out of here before the media swarms.

We take Cam on a short tour of Las Vegas, have an early dinner, and make a quick stop at the casino inside our hotel before we head back to our suite for the night. There will be more time to explore and enjoy Las Vegas after the fight, but tonight we need to focus on getting our rest before all the promotional stuff in the morning, and of course the fight tomorrow afternoon. I wanted Cam to get to see a little of the city while we had some time.

The suite is enormous and full of luxury amenities that are common to the lifestyles of the rich and famous. I explain to Cam that it was rarely like this when I was a fighter. This is all just for the special comeback fight. There was more or less a bidding war on who would get to host the match and the fighters, and the sponsorships were excessive, as evidenced by the massive stack of beer, sporting goods, clothes, and bags of branded swag that take up most of the sitting area. I don't know why I find it endearing that Cam couldn't care less about all the stuff. He just wants to get me in the giant jacuzzi tub.

Once we're soaking in the hot water, with Cam's back against my chest, he asks me about what happened with Hoyt and the handshake.

"He made himself look stupid, and possibly hurt himself in the long run, because he's a man child that didn't react well to my response to his taunts and shit talking."

"What did you say?"

"I told him that I hope he and Trista are happy together, and didn't balk when he made snide comments about my new relationship."

"What kind of comments?"

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't faze me, and you shouldn't let it get to you, either. This is one of the more macho professional sports. People are going to say things about us being together. Just remember that once this is all over, they'll forget about us and go chase their next headline somewhere else. Nothing they can say can hurt us, right?"

"Right."

I find a fluffy washcloth on the side of the tub and bring it down into the water, caressing it up and down Cam's arm.

"What are you thinking now?" I ask, wanting to reassure him if he's overthinking things.

"What did you mean when you said that Hoyt possibly hurt himself in the long run?"

"Professional sports haven't exactly been known to openly welcome queer athletes. In boxing especially—there's only been one openly gay male pro boxer than I can think of. It's just not something that's widely accepted. But to have a sponsored professional spout homophobic or racist slurs during a primetime event, in front of the media and public? The sponsors are smart enough to know that the general public will create an uproar. I guarantee you it's all over the news already. Some of his sponsors will drop him, and he could lose endorsement deals whether he wins or loses. He's already not a public favorite, because he's a known hothead who says and does offensive and inappropriate stuff regularly. But sponsorships have been lost for less."

"Like what?"

"Like unofficially coming out in a series of leaked cellphone photos and choosing not to defend myself."

"Oh."

Leaning to one side, I touch Cam's cheek to get him to turn towards me. "I don't want to be sponsored by someone that is concerned about what tabloids say about my personal life. I also don't want to be sponsored by anyone who can't find it in themselves to accept that love is love."

When his lips quirk up to one side, I lean forward and take his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, teasing the edges of his lips with my tongue. Cam turns around in the tub to face me, sliding his thighs against mine as he straddles me.

With his forehead resting against mine, and the water sloshing over the edges of the tub, Cam takes me in his hand and strokes me slowly. "And you love me?"

"Yes, tiny dancer. I love you."

It doesn't bother me that Cam hasn't officially said the words back to me yet. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in his embrace, and hear it in the words that go unsaid. He'll come around in his own time.

We spend the rest of the night in each other's arms, and I don't say it out loud, but part of me is afraid that it'll be the last time.

"Last chance to back out," Dwayne says, only half kidding.

"Ha ha. Nice pep talk, bro."

"You don't need a pep talk. You need to keep your guard up and believe in yourself. I believe in you. And so does he," Dwayne says, gesturing towards Cam, who is standing just inside the door to the private locker room. He's wearing a maroon t-shirt with Connor Bro's Team embroidered on the breast and a pair of black slacks, just like my brother.

"Well, look at that," I say, gesturing him over. "Don't you look gorgeous in red?"

"Blue is more my color," he says with a smile. "But thank you."

"He's one of the team now," Dwayne says. "He wanted to make sure he could be in the corner with you."

"Always," Cam says.

"Always."

The walk up the tunnel to the auditorium is a blur, and from there, I'm not even sure how I made it into the ring. I don't remember walking through the crowd or climbing into the ring. I don't hear the announcer's voice, or the roar of the crowd.

All of a sudden, I'm here. All the stress and the preparation and work that I've put into training for this match, all the fear over the similarities to my father's death, all my worries about not being good enough for Cameron—it all echoes around me like a bad memory.

The lights are bright when we step into the middle of the ring. Hoyt faces me without doing the obligatory glove bump. While the announcer is rattling off the rules we both know, I look over at my corner, where my brother and Cam are there to support me through this. I zero in on Cam and how beautiful he is.

"I love you," he mouths.

The bell rings.

Dwayne was right that Hoyt would try to dance around me and tire me out. He was also right that he'd punch hard and aim for the maximum impact. Bo Hoyt is out for the kill if he can get away with it.

My recent training is keeping me ahead of him. I've anticipated every move, blocked most of his hard punches, and countered him with as much aggression as he's giving me. The longer the fight goes on, the more tired he becomes, and the more pissed off he's getting.

The bell rings.

Dwayne blots my face with a towel, takes out my mouth guard, and squeezes water into my mouth. Cam rubs my shoulders.

"You're doing so well," he says.

Dwayne says, "Keep dancing, but you need to get a good hit in. You're making him work, that's great. Now take him down."

Hoyt lands a hard punch against my temple. I reel but refuse to let him know it affected me that much. The truth is, my vision is blurring, things are running together like I've crossed my eyes.

I take my eyes off him for a second, cutting my eyes to Cam to see if he noticed the punch. I don’t want him to worry too much or be afraid. It's the briefest glance, but Hoyt sees me distracted and gets in my space, pushing me back towards the ropes. A rough uppercut makes me fall backwards a bit, but I manage to right myself.

"You've got it in you, kid. Just remember, if you get knocked down, you get back up. No matter what, you get back up."

"I love you."

All the sounds of the crowd, of Hoyt's gloves hitting against my flesh, of the countdown clock marking the seconds until another round ends, it all converges on me at once. Like I'm snapping out of a trance, I push forward, forcing Hoyt to back up. Then I'm on my toes, dancing back and forth, stepping left, and then right, then left again. I duck under Hoyt's punches that are getting sloppier, and pop back up, a little closer to pushing him back the way he had me.

The bell rings.

More water, a fresh towel. Dwayne spreads Vaseline on a cut above my eyebrow.

"You're getting in your head," Dwayne he says. "You let him wear you down, but then you got the upper hand. Whatever you were thinking of when you snapped out of it and started punching back, I want you to keep that."

"I'm just playing with him," I assure him in my cockiest tone. Then I look over my shoulder at Cameron and wink. "You having fun yet?"

He laughs and bends through the ropes, his mouth on the shell of my ear. "You know, other than the you getting hit part, I think I'm starting to like watching you dance as well."

"Is that right?" I say before I put my mouth guard back in and roll my shoulders, ready to enter the ring again.

"Yeah, but I'd rather watch you put him on the ground so we can go back to the hotel. You promised me a switch, and I have never wanted to be fucked as much as I do right now."

Well, fuck.

No more toying around, no more zoning out. No more second guessing that I am and always have been, a better boxer and a better man than Bo Hoyt.

I just have to believe.

Like my father believed in me. Like Dwayne still does. Like the guys from the gym.

Like my tiny dancer believes in me.

Hoyt has gotten used to my dancing around, so this time, as soon as the bell rings, I come in hot with an old favorite.

I take three long steps directly into his body, jab with my left, and when Hoyt's gloves move to accommodate a punch from my non-dominant side, I lift up on my toes as I swing wide and bring my fist down and across his face like I'm swinging Thor's hammer.

Hoyt hits the mat. The ref bends down. Counts. Calls it.

It's over.

Everything after the moment Hoyt hits the ground takes way too long. The cheering, the questions, the celebrations, the post-fight interviews. I just want to get the hell out of here.

"Is it true that you used some rather unconventional training methods to prepare for tonight's fight? And how much do you feel that training came into play tonight?"A reporter from a major sports network asks.

"I trained with a professional ballet dancer, who is an excellent teacher. And I think that training absolutely changed the way I was able to move and maintain my stamina tonight."

"Are you talking about Cameron Stevens?" someone shouts from the back. From the way everyone stares at me, waiting for the answer instead of clamoring to ask their own, I don't think I can get away with pretending not to hear it.

"Yes, that's him. He's incredibly talented and has supported me through training for this fight. I attribute this win to the training and support he provided me, as a professional, and as my boyfriend."

Well, that certainly riled them up. I look over at the press manager, indicating that I'm about done. He calms the rabid press and calls for one more question.

"What's next for you?" A man from a national sports publication asks.

"I'm moving back home permanently. I'll be going into business with my brother and focusing on supporting Cameron's career."

I nod to the press manager and stand. "Thank you all for your time. And for your support."

Dwayne isn't surprised when I don't want to go for dinner or go celebrate the win. I never used to party much after a fight, win or lose. I prefer to use the time to decompress.

And since Cam met me in the locker room after the press conference and made me watch him insert a concerningly large plug into his ass, getting back to the hotel room is of the utmost importance. To even attempt to walk from the hired car to the lobby elevator, I have to tuck my massive boner in my waistband, and bend forward like I have a bad back. Thank fuck no one enters the elevator with us. The moment the doors close, I have Cameron off the ground and against the wall, dry humping him like I don't know the meaning of the word gentle.

"You make me fucking feral," I growl. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Oh, no you don't. You are not backing down. My ass might as well be stretched around a soda can as big as this plug feels, and I have been waiting since the second time I met you to get that big, beautiful monster inside me."

"Maybe we should do it the other way first, then switch so I can get some of this out."

"Oh, hell no. I want you now. All of it. Hard and fast. We can flip fuck all night if you want, but I need this and I need it now, Dom."

Any arguments I might have are weak, considering I'm rutting against him like an animal the entire time we're speaking. When the elevator doors open to the penthouse foyer, I sit him on the entryway table and tear at his clothes, needing him naked as soon as possible. Our shoes and pants are kicked everywhere, while most of what he's wearing gets ripped directly off his body. Somehow, we make it inside the actual hotel room, though I honestly couldn't tell you how.

"I know how we're going to do this," Cam says, pushing me down on the plush, white sofa. "You're going to take this plug out of my ass and see how many fingers you can get inside me. Then I'm going to sit on your cock and ride you at my pace. I want to show you what I'm capable of."

Jesus, the words alone make me want to come. Cam shoots a glance from my eyes to my cock, and then back again, holding my gaze as if to say, "Don't you fucking dare."

Four. Four is how many fingers I can fit inside Cam after I remove the impressive silicone plug from his ass. I start with two, and they sink into his lubed-up hole easily. Three is a tighter fit, but there's little resistance. The way his hole gapes open for me when I pull my fingers out, then the way it grips me when I push my fingers back in, is a marvel I want to keep witnessing, but Cam is beyond patience.

I'm vibrating with tension, wanting and fearing this in equal measure. The only thing giving me any comfort is how Cam takes control, because he really wants this.

He steadies my racing thoughts and trembling limbs with a hand pressed to the center of my chest. Locking eyes with his confident, steadfast gaze, I relax against the back of the couch and watch Cam as he arches his back, reaching behind him. My breath catches when his warm, lubed hand strokes me, making my entire length slippery and wet.

I tense again when he lifts and lines himself up, and my hands shoot to his waist.

"I just need one more second," I say, dizzy with nerves.

"Dom," Cam whispers. "Trust me. Trust yourself. Because I trust you."

I trust you.

Those three words mean more to me than anything. Even more than the three words used to profess our love, his trust is everything. After everything he's been through and endured, he can find it in himself to trust me.

And if he trusts me, maybe it's time to trust myself. I'm a big guy, and I can be a brute. I can be violent when the time calls for it, but Cam, of all people, knows I'm really just a big teddy bear. I'm not a mindless animal, and I'll always put his needs and comfort above my own.

The tension drains out of me. I keep my hands on his waist, but this time it's to hold on for dear life. Because as Cam slowly sinks down on my cock, I see colors that I didn't know existed. He's barely taken more than the head of my cock and I'm already so close. How is it possible that there could be somewhere so scorchingly hot and tight and perfect.

"I told you," he pants. "My ass was made to take your cock."

He takes it slow, sinking lower on my cock in short increments. His breaths are coming in harsh pants, and his eyes are scrunched tight, but he moans every time another inch sinks into his stretched hole. Until finally he's fully seated in my lap. My arms wrap around him and hold him tight, savoring the feeling of being connected to him in this way. We don't move for a long while until it becomes impossible not to.

Using my chest as leverage, Cam's knees squeeze my thighs, and lifts himself all the way off before sinking back down. The air expels from him in a long, slow, breathy groan with each drag of my cock pulling out of him, and then pushing back in, until he's moving up and down my cock with less resistance. My fingers dip into his cleft, spreading around the width of my cock to rub over his stretched entrance.

" Holy fuck ," I breathe.

"You wanna see?" I nod frantically, not able to breathe properly, much less form words.

The whimper that escapes me when he pulls off my cock would embarrass me if I wasn't so overcome with lust, watching him turn around so his back is facing me. My mouth drops open at the sight of the gape in his ass as he spreads himself open. I quickly dribble a little more lube on myself before holding my cock steady for him. He sinks back down, and it's a struggle to keep my eyes from rolling back, but I don't want to miss a second of watching him swallow my thick cock.

"Christ, baby. You're stretched so wide. You're so—fucking— ungh —perfect." My words are choppy, broken up with heavy breaths and grunts as I try to hold myself back. "Cam, I need to— fuck , baby, please ?—"

Cam fucks himself with my cock inside him, fist sliding furiously up and down his shaft while he rides me, lifting up and slamming down.Holding his hips, I help him move up and down my cock, still letting him be in control of how hard or fast he takes me.

I'm going to come. There's no way to stop it. He's too tight, too sexy, too perfect.

"I can feel you holding back," Cam pants. "Let it go, baby. Fill me up."

"I'm trying to wait for you. I want you to come."

He leans his back against my chest and shows me how close he is. His hard cock is leaking all over his fist.

Oh fuck.

Gripping his hips tighter, I work him up and down, thrusting my hips up. Heat unfurls at the base of my spine, tendrils of spine-tingling pleasure radiating out. My cock pulses and erupts, shooting deep inside as I pull Cam down hard on my cock and hold him there, rocking into him while I take over working his cock. I pump him hard and fast, until he comes with a shout and his tight ass milks the last drops of cum from my body.

When we've come down enough from the aftershocks, I carefully lift Cam off my cock, watching in rapture as a trickle of white drips out of his gaping ass.

"Fuck me," I rasp, tracing a drop of my fluids down his inner thigh and pushing it back inside him.

"Oh, I plan to," he says tiredly, collapsing over the edge of the couch to rest while I'm still playing with him.

"You're mine now, tiny dancer."

“I always have been.”