Impromptu Match (Goliaths of Wrestling, #1)

by Lily Mayne

I’d typed out the word ‘synergy’ so many times in the last twelve years that it appeared in my dreams. I still didn’t even really know what it meant, and at this point I was too afraid to ask.

Dick-starved, I decided. It was a miserable, dick-starved mouth. I hadn’t had a dick in my mouth in four long years. Whatever muscles were used for dicksucking had probably just given up. Resigned themselves to the knowledge that they would never be put to work again. Or maybe it was the ice cream-eating muscles that had given up. Now I was picturing a nice, hard dick covered in ice cream, and I was getting a sad boner.

If I climbed onto a chair and announced, ‘I don’t even really know what HutSec does,’ would they all slowly start nodding and agreeing? Would we all collectively say, ‘fuck it,’ and start chugging our drinks and turn this into a bacchanalia? Would it devolve into an orgy?

I accepted a slice of cake on a paper plate from Sharon with a smile and a somewhat enthusiastic, “Thanks,” even though it was lemon cake, which was the cake choice of evil villain overlords hellbent on sowing chaos and destruction, in my opinion.

Are you, Mindy? Are you really glad, or is your eye twitching slightly as you eat it because deep down, you know lemon cake is what the devil would choose to torture all the damned souls in hell with? Oh god, maybe this was hell. And Sharon from Accounts was the devil.

If I had to stay for much longer, I was pretty sure I’d end up doing something unhinged like ripping open my shirt and smearing lemon cake all over my chest while laughing maniacally. I’d snap.

I glanced over at Devil-Sharon, trying to project my thoughts to her. Okay, Satan, I’ve figured it out. Maybe it’s time for a new kind of torture? I don’t care what it is, as long as it gets me out of this room. I’d take standing in line at the DMV over this. I’d take public speaking over this. Want me to give a presentation on the kind of porn I like? If it means I can leave, gladly. I’ll even time stamp the key moments that make me nut, if it helps. Sharon didn’t even look over, back to flirting with Tim from HR. I was pretty sure Satan would have better taste in men than Tim from HR, so maybe she really did just like lemon cake.

Who the fuck was Holt? Why did this guy think I was “for” him? Was this a Mafia thing? All the ‘employees’ seemed to be dressed in sharp suits. Oh god, was this one of those things where billionaires got together and hunted the ‘ultimate prey?’ Was I going to be chased through the basement by a smartly dressed businessman with night-vision goggles and a crossbow?

“He specifically requested—” He squinted down at his clipboard. “‘—sad office worker forced to attend a colleague’s birthday party.’ I mean, that’s clearly you.”

My nostrils flared with outrage. “Fuck you. I don’t need some stranger telling me how sad my life is. I’m already perfectly aware.” “Clearly.” He stood there uncomfortably for a few seconds, before rounding the desk. I quickly averted my eyes from the prominent bulge in the front of his suit pants. He was hard? He had a boner from listening to me list all the details of my miserable life? What kind of sadist was he? And why the fuck was it kind of hot?

This was definitely a Mafia thing. A cosplaying wrestler Mafia thing. Did Holt wrestle? Why did I kind of want to see that? Was it mud-wrestling?

“Sometimes I worry that one of my testicles hangs too much lower than the other. Like, they look too uneven. You know what I mean?”

“I just like symmetry.” He shrugged, eyeing me as he gulped down half his fresh drink. “Your face is really symmetrical. It’s nice.”

“Do you think a testes tuck is a thing?”

Tell me about douchebag Marcus and his blogger boyfriend. Say all the shit you know you shouldn’t say to friends and family about them.”

Oh god. Was this what therapy was like?

more secrets. And more rum.

“We should totally do it.” “Do what?” “Put the ice cream on our dicks.”

Through the window that looked out onto the bullpen, I saw him pause. And wrinkle his nose. Oh fuck. Oh no. We’d gone in there. Holt and I had gone into Chase’s office to fart, and because we’d both eaten an ungodly amount of dairy, they’d been particularly bad. Then we’d run out and quickly closed the door to trap the smell, giggling like little kids.

“Have I fucked any of the wrestlers? No,” Holt had said while stirring rum into what remained of the salted caramel ice cream so he could drink it. “Have I imagined them all passing my naked and willing body around the ring to do whatever they want to me while a crowd of lusty spectators looked on? I’m not made of stone, Taylor. Of course I have.”

And I did really want to see a big, oiled-up beefcake bounce his pecs to make his nipple tassels spin. No amount of embarrassment could keep me from that. I wasn’t made of stone.

“What’d he ask for tonight?” Ludo cocked his head, brown eyes trailing over my frame. “Wait, let me guess… sleep-deprived dad at a zoo?”

I still wanted to see the show. I wanted to see the Tasselled Tussler spinning his nipple tassels, damn it! “Wait… Nipples,”

I tried not to get self-conscious. He probably had, like, a six-pack under his suit, and I didn’t even have a two-pack. I was pretty sure I’d actually been born without abdominal muscles or something.

“Fuck, Taylor,” he panted desperately against my mouth between more messy kisses. “I want you to sit on my face and dip your balls into my mouth.” Good lord. Marcus had never said anything like that to me. In fact, he’d never even expressed any kind of interest in me doing that.

Okay, so I was getting lots of useful information here. Mainly that Larkin wanted to fuck every single wrestler in the building.

“B. Were is a werewolf, and fuck, dude, he has these eyes that are like… Not to sound like a total dink, but they’re hella fucking dreamy, bro.” Larkin sighed. “Like, I just want him to gaze down at me all lovingly and shit while he rearranges my guts, you know?”

“Aww.” Larkin nudged my shoulder. “You’re like two single dads finding a second chance at love in your twilight years. It’s adorbs, honestly.”

“Aside from the eyeball, he’s just a big bald guy.” “He’s thick,” Larkin gushed. “Built like a tank. His stomach looks all warm and soft. I just wanna come on it then give him a full-body massage with my splooge.”

He was an actual orc. The Optometrist was an actual cyclops. Nunhallowed Pound was an actual incubus who dressed up as a sexy nun. Seb was a werewolf. Weirdly, the sight of Holt and Larkin didn’t freak me out at all. I was too attracted to Holt to panic over the fact that he wasn’t actually human, and Larkin was too ridiculous to take seriously.

As I was picking up my grocery bags and turning to leave, an orange bounced off the belt of the register next to me and rolled into my foot. I bent to pick it up, and when I straightened, my pulse jumped as I stared into the wrinkled face of the sweetly smiling old woman in front of me. “Thank you, dear,” she said in a wavering voice. I couldn’t answer, too busy wondering if there was a big purple lizard hiding somewhere in that tiny, hunched body. Maybe she was friends with Ethel the Cackling Lizard Granny. Maybe there was a big network of Lizard Grannies who got together on Friday nights to party. Maybe they were the Mafia.

I could just picture Cackling Lizard Granny in her pink floral dress, leaning back behind a big mahogany desk and steepling her big lizard claws together as she stared down a meekly cowering gargoyle or incubus, calmly threatening them for asking for a favour from the Lizard Granny Mafia on the day of her lizard daughter’s lizard wedding or something.

I’d agonised over texting him all day, and hadn’t yet plucked up the courage by the time nine p.m. rolled around. I knew he’d be busy now, with the wrestling about to start, and I didn’t want to be the sad loser texting him on a Saturday night while he was… I dunno, having a pre-show orgy with all the big hunky wrestlers or something. I mean, I knew he wouldn’t actually be doing that, but still. Maybe he’d hired another stripper for the night, or got that guy back to satisfy whatever craving he currently had. Avid reader with a gift card in a bookstore, maybe. Or gambling addict on a winning streak at a poker table. Horny groom at a strip club for his bachelor party.

Oh god, the ironing board was still out. He’d know I was a total dork who’d spent my Saturday night ironing in front of the TV. Maybe I should just lean into it. Act all devil-may-care and like I was actually the true rebel by not playing by society’s rules. I could even be literally leaning against the ironing board in a cool pose when he got here and say something edgy like, ‘What up, Holt. Yeah, I like the way freshly ironed boxer briefs feel against my balls. What of it? Guess I’m just a maverick who doesn’t care what people think.’

I wanted to preen. Yeah, that was right—unassuming Taylor Hough with his ironed underpants and dad jeans and unfashionable sneakers was still a pro at sucking dick. My dicksucking muscles were the strongest fucking muscles in my whole body. I could probably lift a car with them or something.

He groaned. “I should probably start wearing underwear again if I’m gonna wear such tight pants.” I blinked at him. “You don’t wear underwear? Even after the… Japanese businessmen seeing your butthole incident?” He shrugged, giving me a sly smirk. “Guess I like to live dangerously.”

Thank you for the breakfast and, um, the frotting—”

“Can we watch depressing British soaps and make out on the couch?” God, that sounded perfect.

I was some kind of handjob wizard.

Oh my god, I was sexting at work. I was so bad.

I’d known Holt for less than a week and he’d already gone to the trouble of dressing up as a delivery guy to hand deliver my favourite flowers to me at work on a Monday morning.

The banshee’s boyfriend was a porn star? Monster porn was a thing? How did I find it online? Would Holt want to watch it with me?

“This chest hair,” he murmured throatily, fingering the pathetic, scraggly patch of hair on the centre of my chest. “God, it’s so hot. I want to rub my balls against it.” I snuffled a little laugh. I was pretty sure Holt just wanted to rub his balls against everything.

“He’s Holt’s, fellas,” Larkin drawled as he sauntered over. “Wanna get blacklisted for hitting on the boss’s hot dadbod boyfriend?”

“I’d be proud as fuck if someone said I had a magic bussy. Or whatever the fae version is. A fussy? Fabussy? Hi, Seb.”

“Is there a… monster Mafia?” He glanced over at me with a wry smile. “You mean like the one you thought I was the head of when we met?” I grinned and gave his side a gentle squeeze. “Yeah, but now I know you’re not.” “I was kind of flattered, actually. Do I come across as intimidating?” He tossed back his long, silky hair. “I mean… once you started talking about your testicles, you were a little less intimidating.” “You love my testicles, Taylor,” he purred, leaning over to nuzzle my cheek. I laughed, my cheeks going pink. “I really do. I can’t wait to see them again later.” “And I can’t wait to put them in your mouth.” He grinned over at me. “Assuming you want them in your mouth, that is.” I grinned back. “I definitely want them in my mouth.”

Roller derby goblins. With every new thing I learned about this secret world, I grew more convinced that the Lizard Granny Mafia was plausible.

“He’s an incubus adult film star. Maybe you’ve seen some of his work? There’s Assmo Deez-Nuts, which really launched his career. Or um… his new one is Incu-bating with the Bros.”

I don’t think there are any fluids left in my body. Seriously, even my eyeballs feel dry.”

he let out his weirdest come noise yet. It sounded like a strangled squawk. I opened my eyes as my body relaxed, a tiny frown pulling at my brows. It had almost sounded like he was in pain— “Fuck,” he squeaked. “My back.” “What?” I lifted my head as he rolled off me with an agonised groan. “That threw out my fucking back,” he said tightly, staring up at the ceiling with a pained, miserable expression. “I’ve pulled a muscle or something.” I sat up and stared down at him, our cum sliding down my stomach. “How?” “You made me come too hard!” He shot me a weak glare when I snorted. “My muscles are all stiff right now! They’re not warmed up. I’m not limber yet.” “That threw your back out? Not being folded in half last night?”