It was wild and frantic. Vicious and desperate. Your fight until that moment.
Until, without word or warning, your rival, who you had mounted stopped. Her eyes closing, breath slowing, and body stilling beneath you.
It is a change that takes you off-guard and confuses, and yet to it you react by ebbing your efforts in kind. Your thighs tightening around her hips, and cheek pressing to hers as you wait and wonder.
What is she thinking? What is she doing? What now will become of our talon-led tryst.
And though you ponder, waiting for clues, still do your fingers squeeze and dig into your enemy’s breasts. On instinct. From desire. But also, in challenge.
“Fight me.” You whisper.
“Hurt me.” You demand.
Your every word drawing a shudder and a moan from the woman on whom you lay.