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He swears it’s just superstition. Not the locker room rituals, not the way he tapes his hands in the exact same order every time, not even the quiet prayer he mutters under his breath before stepping into the ring. It’s you.
You’re perched on the edge of the little gym office desk, legs swinging, the air thick with chalk dust and adrenaline. Outside, the crowd is already starting to rumble. He can hear it, feel it, the way he always does before a fight. But his eyes are on you. “You ready?” you ask softly, trying not to smile.
Clark exhales, rolling his shoulders, massive frame filling the room. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt, curls damp and unruly. He steps closer, crowd noise fading into nothing. “I don’t go in without you,” he says, low. Certain. Like it’s a fact carved into bone.
His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing slow, familiar circles. It’s not rushed. Never is. This part matters too much. His forehead dips to yours, breath warm, steadying. “You know you’re my lucky charm, right baby?” he murmurs.
You laugh under your breath. “You won plenty before me.”
“Not like this.” His mouth curves, teasing, affectionate. “Not undefeated.”
His fingers slip beneath the hem of your shorts, just enough to make your breath catch. He feels the way your body responds instantly to him, always has, and his smile turns softer, in a way that makes your knees weak. “There you go,” he murmurs, almost fond. “Always so responsive.”
You flush, hands fisting in his shirt, tugging him closer. “Clark…”
“I know,” he says gently, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you.” He lifts you onto the desk like it’s nothing, grounding himself between your knees. The room feels smaller now, hotter. His touch is unhurried, confident, like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this is part of the extensive training.
“You take care of me,” he whispers against your skin. “Every time. Least I can do is return the favor.” Your head tips back as he leans in, mouth brushing your ear, his voice dropping into that intimate register only you ever hear. Outside, the crowd roars louder. Someone knocks on the door. "Fifteen minutes."
Clark stills, just for a second, like he’s locking the moment away.
He doesn’t waste another second. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your shorts and panties aside with practiced ease. You gasp as the cool air hits you, but then his mouth is there, hot, insistent, dropping to his knees between your spread legs like he’s worshiping at an altar. The desk creaks under your weight as you lean back on your elbows, watching him through half-lidded eyes.
Clark looks up at you, those dark eyes burning with focus and hunger, his big hands gripping your hips to hold you steady. “Gonna taste you first,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Need you dripping for me.”
His tongue drags slow and deliberate over your folds, parting you with a low groan that vibrates straight through your core. You bite your lip to stifle a moan, fingers threading into his damp curls as he licks into you like he’s starving.
He’s relentless — sucking gently on your clit, circling it with the flat of his tongue, then dipping lower to thrust inside you. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, the sounds wet and obscene in the small room, mingling with the distant roar of the crowd.
“Clark—fuck—” you whimper, head falling back as he hums against you, one hand sliding up to tease your entrance with two thick fingers. He pushes them in slowly, curling just right, and your back arches off the desk.
“That’s it, baby,” he growls between licks, voice muffled against your skin. “Let me hear you. Give me everything.”
He works you higher, faster, until you’re grinding against his face, chasing the edge. When you come, it crashes over you hard, your body clenching around his fingers, a sharp cry escaping as he laps you through it, not stopping until you’re shaking and boneless.
Only then does he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild and focused. He shoves his shorts down just enough, freeing his dick —hard and heavy, already leaking for you. With one smooth motion, he pulls your hips to the edge of the desk and lines himself up, thrusting in deep.
You both groan at the stretch, the perfect fit. He doesn’t hold back now. Fucking you hard and steady, the desk rattling beneath you with every snap of his hips. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, angling deeper as he leans over you, mouth claiming yours in a messy, desperate kiss that tastes like you.
“Feel so fucking good,” he pants against your lips, pace relentless. “My girl. My luck.” You wrap your legs around him, nails digging into his back, urging him on. The pressure builds again, coiling tight, and he knows, he always knows.
“Close,” you gasp, and he nods, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping.
“Me too. Gotta cum inside you,” he rasps, voice breaking with need. “That’s what locks in the win, baby. Gotta fill you up, mark you as mine. Then I’m untouchable out there.”
You clench around him at the words, and that’s all it takes. He buries himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling hot inside you, hips jerking as he rides it out. The feeling pushes you over again, your second orgasm milking him dry as you cling to him, breathless and shattered.
He kisses you once more, slow and promising, then pulls back with a breathless laugh. “Yeah,” he says, eyes dark, focused, unbeatable. “I’m winning tonight.” You straighten your clothes, heart racing, watching him grab his robe and wrap his hands. At the door, he pauses, glancing back.
“Same after?” he asks.
You grin. “Same after.”
Clark nods, satisfied, and heads for the ring.
And when the crowd erupts later, when his hand is raised again, you already know. It was never the superstition, it was always you.