“K.” Britt’s voice caresses my stiffening cock, making it throb painfully in my jeans. “Are you nervous for the fight?”
My fingers tighten around the armrests. How the hell am I supposed to talk to her here? We’re in an extremely small, enclosed space, she smells so good, and now my dick is so goddamn hard. All I want to do is push her to the bathroom, push up her obscenely short skirt and bury myself in heaven. Three weeks since I kissed her and I’m more obsessed than ever. I don’t even need her sitting next to me to get me hard. Hell, Roxie made me a citrus protein shake the other day and I started to sprout wood at the front desk of the gym just from the scent.
“No, Britt. I’m not nervous,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“Oh.”
She sounds odd, unlike the perky girl I’m used to. Against my better instincts I give in and turn toward her sitting in the aisle seat on my right. Sunlight is filtering through the small window to my left, highlighting every inch of her gorgeous face. High cheekbones, a delicate nose with a slight upturn, a smattering of light-colored freckles across the bridge and continuing beneath those piercing blue eyes—she’s stunning.
And I’m staring.
“Sorry.” I slouch down in my seat until my hoodie covers my eyes. If I let her in any more than I already have, Britt could easily peel back my defenses until I’m exposed and squirming under her gaze. Better to hide, to keep her at arm’s length so she won’t figure out I’m not the man she thinks I am. I’m not a man at all. I’m a monster. A killer. She deserves better than half a human with a black heart and no soul.
“I didn’t mean to bother you, K.” I flinch when her warm hand curls around my wrist. Against every rational thought I have, I push back my hood and meet her intense gaze. She’s leaning out of her seat, her entire body turned toward me. “Jack kept bugging me.” Britt uses her thumb to point over her shoulder and rolls her eyes, smiling.
Of course he is. That fucking douche is begging for a flying knee strike to the face.
My revulsion must be evident. “Don’t worry,” Britt laughs. “I can handle Jack.”
“I’ll handle him if he doesn’t fuck the hell off,” I growl.
Britt’s eyes widen and she shoots me a huge grin. Her hand tightens around my wrist. My calmed-down cock fills up again in less than three seconds.
“That’s sweet of you.”
What? She thinks it’s sweet that I want to rip Jack’s arms off hi
s body and beat him to death with them?
Britt gives my arm one last pat before sitting back and placing her hands in her own lap. She pulls a book out of her bag, cracks it open, and begins to read. Naturally, I’m gaping at her like a teenager who saw his first pair of tits. Great, now I’m thinking about her tits.
Britt stops reading and tilts her head in my direction. “Is it okay if I sit here? I can’t deal with his chatter.”
Unable to think past the image of running my mouth all over her breasts, biting and leaving dark red marks in that creamy white skin to claim her as mine, I nod. Cheeks burning, I sink down in my seat, adjusting my hard-on as discreetly as possible stuck between the window on my left and her sitting six inches to my right, and close my eyes. I think every hideous, non-sexy thing possible to cleanse my mind of Britt and how badly I want her. I can’t have her. Not when I know I can never be worthy.
Britt
The schedule the week of the fight is so crazy, I’ve hardly had two seconds to speak to K even though we spend nearly all of our time together. There’s always something to be done or someone else with us—Gabriel, Max, Jack, journalists, AFL officials, fans—it’s insane. Even though he’s a rookie in his first fight, K has garnered massive amounts of interest. I’m not sure if it’s his unheard of training experience in Thailand and Brazil, the scouting reports, or if it’s just K, all tatted up and scary-looking, but excitement surrounds us wherever we go.
As do the women. Lots of them. Half-naked, desperate, clingy women all over K every minute of every day. Three days in Vegas and I want to scream, put my hand up, and shove them away by the face. Only the fact that K ignores every last one of them, his signature hood pulled down low over his eyes whenever we’re in public, keeps me sane and gives me smug satisfaction. It’s not like I haven’t noticed I’m the only woman he makes eye contact with.
I’m watching K spar in the cage at our Vegas training facility, a gym owned by a good friend of Gabriel’s. The week before a fight is crazy busy, but the workouts are cut back to about seventy-five percent to prevent burnout by fight night.
Truthfully, he doesn’t really need me here. K’s form is perfect. Every kick, punch, jab, and takedown is fluid and beautiful to watch.
Max drops onto the bench next to me, huffing. He motions towards K. “Jesus, you’d think he’s the second coming of Anderson Silva with all the freaking fuss being made.”
My mouth twists up, but I don’t acknowledge Max’s dig at K. He’s been unreasonably hostile this week when it comes to K, especially over the attention K is getting from the media and fans.
Naturally, Max continues ranting, clueless to the fact that we’re supposed to be here to help K succeed, not to cut him down over petty bullshit. “I mean, he’s not that special.”
I twist my head to face Max. He’s been my friend at work for the last two years, but I can’t let him continue to badmouth any member of our team. And we are supposed to be a team.
“Can you just shut up?”
Max’s mouth drops open in shock. Never in a million years did he think I would go off on him, but he doesn’t know I’ve been playing the passive-aggressive game with my mother for the last decade. I’m an expert at recognizing it.
“I… but… seriously?” he stammers. “You’re defending that stuck-up asshole?”