Putin swings again and Bane ducks, kicking at his ankles and making contact. As he does so, his arm-guard lowers for a split second. Putin two-steps but doesn’t trip, instead taking advantage of Bane’s lowered guard and barreling forward like a bulldozer.
Their bodies crash together and I groan, terrified, as the knife swings toward Bane’s hip. He catches it, though, a rough hand closing around Putin’s wrist just in the nick of time. Bane digs in his heels and the two men’s revved up bodies gravitate and lock into each other, their opposed strengths bringing things to a grinding halt in the center of the ring like a couple of dancing bears.
Bane’s arms clench around Putin’s side and knife-arm, holding it at bay, while Putin’s massive body is straining to push to the wall. Neither seems able to break out of the grizzly grip. I can see Bane’s arm muscles trembling with stress and my solar plexus trembles with him. Both men’s faces are concentrated, their breathing labored. Veins are standing out in Putin’s neck and his eyes dart toward the fence.
The standstill is short-lived. Bane brings his knees up to Putin’s groin, fast and furious. In response, Putin’s free hand flies out and in, battering Bane’s ribs. Bane’s face is stoic, registering no pain, but the Russian’s blows take a toll, and his grip slips.
Putin’s knife-arm is moving again.
Like kids arm wrestling, both men transfer their entire attention to grapple around the knife. Putin gains enough freedom with his arm to draw it back a few inches, moving into position to stab Bane. With tremendous effort, Putin lashes the knife forward.
Bane uses the momentum and pulls Putin’s arm beyond its intended path until Putin is stumbling forward, his head at Bane’s waist. Lightning quick, Bane twists the knife-arm up behind Putin’s back at a withering angle. Putin’s fingers loosen and the knife drops to the sandy floor.
“Yes! Bane! Grab it!” I scream.
Bane can’t hold the angle on Putin’s arm for long, though, and tries to climb up on his back. But Putin spins like a crazy bull, throwing Bane off. He rolls on the ground and speed-crawls toward the knife, but before he can snatch it, Putin lunges.
Bane jumps out of the way, skirting toward the knife. Putin is right behind him, aiming his shoulders at Bane’s waist like a battering ram knocking him sideways. On impact, Bane bends forward over Putin’s torso. Their bodies ram into the fence a few feet down from me, and the whole structure shakes.
So do my knees.
Lightning quick, Bane shoots his left arm out and loops it around Putin’s neck, making a lock with his other fist and squeezing both elbows up. It’s a guillotine, and Putin is choking. Bane threads Putin’s head under his armpit, his bicep pushing into the other man’s air pipe. Putin’s arms flail into Bane’s sides, but Bane will not let go of his stranglehold. Bane uses the hold to force them both down to their knees.
Bane’s face is crinkled with strain as he squeezes his arm tighter and tighter around Putin’s neck. The big man’s arms slow down as his air supply shortens. Bane pulls him forward and down, wrapping his legs around Putin’s ribs and locking his ankles behind. Bane’s wrapped around him like alligator jaws, cutting off air and blood flow.
Putin’s head goes red, then purple, and blue. Finally, he stops moving altogether, his massive body draping over Bane like a bearskin rug. Still, Bane holds on. I count to a hundred in my head before two bouncers enter the ring and manage to pry Putin’s dead body out of Bane’s lethal embrace.
My adrenaline pump slows to a normal speed, and I become more aware of my surroundings. The crowd is mostly cheering, seemingly pleased with the unlikely surprise of Bane’s victory. They start to chant, “Beast, Beast, Beast!”
One of the bouncers lifts Bane to his feet and forces him to hold a fist in the air, a stance of triumph. Bane spits on the ground, still breathing hard, and squints into the lights.
Jack, who is standing a few feet down from me, takes a sweeping look at the flushed, worshipful, delirious faces of the audience. It’s mostly well dressed, drunk or tripped-out men, clients; a few hard-faced women who look like clients too, a few naked women who look like slaves. Jack’s avaricious eyes pretty much turn into cartoon dollar signs as he studies them all, rubbing his chin. A group of impeccably-dressed men sitting in a row of roped-off seats nod at Jack from across the arena.
“They love him,” he admits to the Sergeant at Arms beside him. “I’ll be damned. Guess that’ll have to be all the blood we get for today.”
Jack signals to the bouncers to release Bane.
He’s free!
“Bane,” I whisper. “Bane! You’ve won!”
I rip myself out of Judge Jefferson’s hands and bolt for the gate to the ring. It’s open, and Bane and the bouncer have just turned towards it. I’m racing through before I let myself think about it, the sand crunching under my bare feet as I hurl myself into Bane.
Colliding with his bare, hard body, I feel my legs spring up off the ground and wrap around his waist like a vine. His arms reflexively wrap around my hips, clutching me to him. I dig my fingers in his hair, pulling his head down, and for the first time I bury my lips into his. I taste his mouth, his sweat. His scent almost drowns me, the sensation of his kiss filling my entire body.
The seal is broken. The sweet taste of his mouth makes my heart hammer, and when his lips part and his tongue launches under mine I feel an explosion of fire between my legs. He wraps around me, our tongues heavy and sensuous, and I forget the noise of the cheering crowd and the heat of the floodlights.
Too soon, Bane pulls his head back. His pupils are dilated, his breath jagged. He laughs softly under his breath.
“So Ava,” he says, “How ‘bout you and me take this upstairs?”
Chapter Fifteen
Jenny is soundly asleep on the floor next to Bane’s bed, breathing steadily, and Meat Grinder is long gone. Locking his bedroom door behind us, Bane lifts me off my feet and sweeps me into the bathroom. He shuts and locks that door too, for good measure, before setting me down.
He presses a burning kiss on my neck, another on my throat. His fingers slide over the small of my back, pressing me into him as he rounds his hands over my ass. His fingers flex and clutch at my flesh, hard, rolling it in his hands. A guttural groan escapes from his lips.
“God, Ava,” he says, “It feels like I’ve wanted you for forever.”