Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

And then we blink and the moment changes.

It becomes urgent and heated as she positions her hips over mine. As her hand reaches down between her legs to grab me and place me at her entrance. As she sits down, forcing me to fill her up. I almost moan, that’s how good this girl feels.

My arms instinctually wrap around her middle, pulling her close to me until her breasts are pressed up against my chest and our sick hearts are beating the same staccato rhythm. She releases my face and bends her head until we are bumping foreheads as she moves back and forth across my lap. Slowly and deliberately.

And I want to kiss her so bad, but her injury… So instead, I tip my head up, grab fistfuls of her hair, and hold her there. Capturing her essence and becoming her prisoner in the same breath.

There is this need that flows between us. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it. And she feels it too. Because her hips begin to move quicker and with more determination. Her fingernails grip my shoulders, digging into the flesh. My hands wander across the smooth, pale skin of her thighs and then I grab her hips and drag her back and forth across my lap, thrusting my cock deeper inside her with each pass. She closes her eyes, and arches her back, and points her face up at the moon as her pussy begins to contract around my shaft.

And then she comes, biting her lip and silencing herself in a way that seems… sad. And practiced.

And in this moment, I feel nothing but hate.

I hate Lazar. He ruined this girl. Ruined her.

I fucking hate that man. I want to get him alone in a crowd. I want to stumble into him on a sunny day. I want to rip his arms from their sockets and slice his throat so deep his head falls off. I want to dig into his chest the way I did Pavo and take out his heart. Feed it to the scavenger gulls and watch them rip and shred it into pieces as they swallow him whole.

And then I come too. With this pale fairy girl on my lap. With this hate in my sick heart. With this dream of revenge.

Filled up with anger and loathing, I come too.

We stay like that for several minutes. Nothing but two broken bodies breathing heavily. Nothing but two lost souls with sweaty skin. Nothing but captured and wasted innocence.

But eventually, the spell wears off and she gets up from my lap, looking for her clothes. And I pull my shorts up, turning to face the stairwell.

And that’s when I see him. Maart.

Watching me?

Watching her?

Watching us.

I can hear his sigh, even though he’s way up on the top platform. And I can see his disapproval in the slight shake of his head.

You’re going to ruin everything. That’s what his head shaking means.

I’m going to ruin everything.

And I might. I just might.

Because this girl has awakened something inside me. Something I’ve been hiding away in a deep dark place for over twenty years.

I’m not sure what it is yet, I just know it’s there. I’ve always known it was there.

I just never wanted to look too hard at the shadows in the corners of my memory. I have always thought it better to walk away and focus on the future.

But what happens when the future is now?

What happens to those shadows when there are no more distractions to keep them at bay?

What happens to me if I take a good long look at who I am and how I really got here?

This is what Maart is afraid of. And up until now, I have been too.

But Anya… there is something uncannily familiar about her.

She is my secret.

No.

She is my answer.

That’s what Maart is really afraid of.

She is my answer.

CHAPTER NINETEEN - ANYA

After Maart slapped my face so hard I bit my tongue, he took me into the clinic and gave me a piece of wet gauze to bite on while he got his things ready to stitch me up. The amount of blood that came gushing from the side of my tongue was crazy. And sickening. I threw up four times, unable to follow his simple direction of “Don’t swallow it.”

It took a while to fix me up, mostly because it wouldn’t stop bleeding enough for Maart to see where he needed to stitch, so he made me lie down on the cot with my head elevated, biting on the gauze until, when he changed it, there was just a soggy splotch of pink.

I was hoping he’d say the stitches weren’t necessary because he had already warned me that there would be no numbing. He was going to stab my tongue with a razor-sharp needle.