Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1) (5 page)

M
aya

I cut him off, the concern I saw in his expression tearing me up inside. He cared – he truly cared, even if it'd take far more for him to actually admit it. No, the last thing I wanted was for this to stop, especially now I had him back in my life again after so many years apart.

"It's not like that, it's just…" I croaked, before tailing off, desperately searching for a way to phrase what I needed to ask
without
giving away the secret that I'd kept from him for so long – if only out of necessity – and which now hung so heavily on my mind. I jutted my chin toward the light switch, folding my hands across my chest protectively.

"The light in here's horrible."

It wasn't exactly a lie – the light cast by the bare lightbulb was bright, harsh and overpowering, but I sure wasn't telling him the whole truth, and nothing but.

Conor leapt athletically to his feet, landing lightly on his toes in a fighter's stance. "You want me to turn it off?" He asked as he stepped toward the light switch and tried to hide the surprise on his face. I'd never been a prude – far from it, so for him my sudden reticence must have come straight out of left field, but he was covering it well. "I've seen you naked before, gal…"

Not like this.
I thought, biting my tongue. There would be a time and a place to tell him everything – I hoped – but now wasn't that time.

I just knew I couldn't let him see the marks, or how my body had changed. I wasn't ready, and I didn't know whether Conor ever would be.

Instead, with blood rushing to my face, I confessed to an embarrassing secret. I croaked. "It's been a while since I, you know, got laid. Just do it, okay?"

Conor's eyes flared with what could only be described as an expression of possessive excitement, as though the idea of me lying with another man repulsed him, and the knowledge that I hadn't excited him even further. "You're the boss."

His eyes raked across my body hungrily, causing the self-conscious part of me to imagine that he was searching for the reason I'd stopped him in his tracks. The truth, I knew deep down, was probably far less exciting. Or more, depending on your point of view – he was horny as hell. I could see the outline of his thick cock through his pants, and there was nothing flaccid about it, not now.

The room went dark as Conor flicked the light switch off, returning to the bed with all the speed of a hunting cheetah – except instead of roaming gazelle, I was his prey. And he didn't want to eat me. Not like that, anyway. Now that he had me in his sights, and with the last obstacle in his way dealt with, I knew there'd be no stopping him.

"How's that?" He cooed quietly, the easy Irish calmness in his familiar accent immediately reassuring me that as far as he was concerned, whatever the reason I didn't want him to see me naked was, it couldn't have troubled him less.

"Perfect." I sighed, his hot breath once again tickling my face, and the stiff hairs of his fiery red stubble sensuously scratching against my face.

Permission granted, Conor didn't pause for a second longer, pulling my arms apart and tearing my top off with a fevered, desperate speed. I had a momentary second of panic as I remembered that – since I hadn't expected to end up half-naked on my back tonight in Conor's bed, my bra and panties were about as matching as they were flattering. That is, not very. And that was putting it lightly!

Either the room's darkness hid the offending articles of underwear, or he simply didn't care. Conor had never been a man to get hung up on the little things. Way back when he'd liked it when I dressed up for him.

But like he used to say, "
I'd want to fuck
you even if I was blind
." I used to say that it was either the most, or the least romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. Even now, years later, I wasn't sure which it was.

At the very second my bra joined my top on the floor, an act that happened so smoothly I barely noticed, Conor planted a fierce kiss on my lips. I pressed mine back against his, feeling the heat as they joined together, and cried out a little as his tongue grazed my bottom lip. I felt his right hand trace its way down my torso. It moved with exquisite slowness and left a trail of pleasure in its wake. His left weaved itself into a handful of my hair and gently pulled at it.

"Please, Conor," I begged. God knows what I was asking for, but whatever it was, he delivered it.

He scraped the bristles on his chin down my front, beginning at the little dimple where my neck meets my shoulders, and trailed his way down my body, passing through my firm breasts and then down, down, down toward my belly button.

It was slow, sensuous torture. It seemed as if he was barely moving, but he knew
exactly
what he was doing. He was building me up to tear me down.

"Turn over," he grunted, not leaving me a choice. I couldn't have disobeyed him even if I'd tried, because he did it for me anyway. He grabbed my hips and flipped me over in one easy movement, leaving me marveling at the power contained in the bulging, rippling muscles that marked his shoulders and back like thick segments of rope.

I came back down to the mattress with a thump which slightly knocked the wind out of me, but Conor didn't give me so much as a second to recover, leaning forward and kissing the back of my neck with his lightly bristled face, groping my ass hungrily and tracing the outline of my pussy.

His hands seemed to have a boundless energy, roaming across every inch of my skin with a speed, firmness and dexterity that left me crying out with pleasure. He massaged tension out of my neck that I didn't even know existed with hands made strong through years of training.

Conor laid a trail of kisses down from the back of my neck to the belt loop of my jeans, accompanying it either side with the gentlest of scratches from his fingernails. He concentrated his attention on my sensitive lower back with a torturous slowness. He seemed to remember every inch of my skin like it was his own, and to know every little thing that made my orgasm tick.

He flipped me over once more, my back a sea of fiery pleasure, and unbuttoned my denim jeans with a practiced ease. Excited beyond belief, with a fire burning between my legs, I tried to help him pull them off, kicking out, but he grabbed my legs and stilled them easily, swiftly yanking the pants off my legs, where they too joined the rest of my clothes on the floor.

Christ, I haven't shaved my legs in weeks. Or down there in
…
much longer
.

But once again, Conor didn't seem to care. I raised my eyes to the ceiling and thanked the heavens that he couldn't see all the little imperfections, the curves
and stretches
through the darkness. They were there thanks to a life that had treated me far harder over the past four years than I could ever have imagined.

I resolved that when, or if, I managed to escape my minders once again to spend time with Conor, I'd come prepared. A bikini wax, shaved legs and, at the very least, matching underwear!

"This isn't fair," I moaned through the waves of pleasure beginning to pulsate between my legs, "I'm practically naked and you're –"

Conor didn't let me finish. He ripped his t-shirt off his head and tossed it to one side, revealing a torso that, from what little of it I could see through the gray darkness that filled the room, didn't have so much as an ounce of fat on it. I reached up, caressing his taut body with a wondering expression on my face, studying his impressive frame through the sparse light from Alexandria's nighttime glow that filtered through the thin string curtains.

"Better?" He grinned cheekily.

"What are the scars from –." I asked, cutting myself off – suddenly and irrationally nervous that by bringing up his imperfections, the ones I wanted to keep hidden would be revealed as well.

"These?" He asked, looking down. "Who knows. Who cares. We've got better things to be doing than talking about some bar-brawl scar I got years ago."

As I let out a sigh of relief, Conor unbuckled his heavy leather belt and yanked his jeans down, leaving them hanging off one leg with his thick cock poking its way out of his thin boxer shorts.

He leaned forward, kissed me fiercely, and enveloped my firm breasts with his thick, powerful hands. His palms were softer than I expected, or perhaps he simply moved more gently than a man with his scarred, intimidating demeanor had any right to.

I sighed again, this time with sheer pleasure as a bolt of electricity traveled from each nipple down and met in between my legs, where a fire was building – a fire that begged to be released.

A strange, powerful, guttural growl grumbled in Conor's throat as he looked down at my half-naked body. I wanted to hide, felt as though I must have put on a dozen pounds – and a couple more marks too – since he'd last seen me like this, but his face didn't register so much as a hint of dismay. His eyes glinted even through the darkness with a fiery need, and he looked at me like I was the first woman he'd ever laid eyes on. It was a hungry, possessive look, and it made me feel
wanted
.

"Please, Conor." I begged for the second time. This time, though, I knew what I wanted him to do. "Fuck me, will you?"

I pushed my hands into his soft, dark red hair as he replied. "I thought you'd never ask."

He kicked off the pants leg which was still stubbornly attached to his left leg, and fell forward on top of me, gently cushioning the drop with his powerful forearms. I gasped as our heads came within an inch of clashing against each other, but he just grinned – indicating to me that he'd never even come close to losing control of his body. I believed him. Even when we met as teens, Conor had been precociously in command of both his body and his mind.

It hadn't been easy, back then, to break down the walls he'd constructed to protect his emotional well-being after years spent scrapping away on the streets to put food on the table, but I'd managed it.

Once.

I wondered if it would even be possible a second time. For all the pent-up sexual energy coursing through the pair of us, I couldn't help but notice that Conor was holding himself somehow separate, apart.

He kissed me, banishing the thought from the front of my mind. It stayed rooted somewhere deep in my brain.

His hand traced its way down my body and toward the burning center between my legs. This time it traveled fast, unhesitatingly, and he thrust his hands under the soft material of the old pair of panties that were desperately preserving what remained of my modesty. I clenched my legs together, embarrassed of the bush of hair that I knew had grown between them, but he pushed aside my last minute resistance with a chuckle.

He stroked the hair gently. "I don't mind it," he whispered into my ear, then bit down on my lip as he pushed his index finger between my legs – and into me.

I gasped. "Conor…"

He took my reaction as approval, and it was. My legs parted as though he'd asked them to, but the fact was that I simply couldn't have resisted him for even another second. My mind had imagined this moment every night for years, and ever since I saw Conor's face in the octagon earlier this evening, even through all my worry, I'd barely been able to think about anything else.

Conor slowly buried his finger two knuckles deep inside me, grabbing the soft flesh of my ass with his left hand and grazing it gently with his fingernails. He leaned forward and kissed my cheek, his bristly facial hair scraping deliciously against my soft skin, and I couldn't help but thrust my hips forward and open my legs for him to use however he wanted.

He did.

I'd half-worried that after so many years without a man that maybe
things
wouldn't work down there, but I needn't have – I was as wet as I'd ever been. My pussy was on fire, quivering as every one of the thousands of nerve endings that surrounded my wet slit screamed out for attention. Conor gave it to them. Slowly, delicately he inserted another finger inside me, and his thick digits satisfied me in a way that my own never could.

When I saw to my own needs, I knew exactly what I was about to do, and what was about to happen.

Conor, though was as unpredictable as he was practiced.

He was like a force of nature, but one that knew exactly how my body would react to his ministrations, and one that never allowed it to relax. Every time I thought the waves of pleasure were about to subside, he altered the angle at which his fingers were probing the soft, delicate folds between my legs, or the speed at which his thumb was pressing against my pulsating clit, and drove me to another height of pleasure.

"I need you," I begged with an urgency in my voice that surprised even me. "Inside me, now."

It didn't seem as though he'd heard me – or if he had, he wasn't paying me any notice. I felt like I was running on Conor's time, not the other way round. He was calling the shots, not me. I felt powerless in the face of this man, who had such power over himself that he could resist a temptation, no – an invitation like that.

He yanked my panties off, tossing them aside in no particular sense of hurry, and the sensation of the old cotton simply brushing against the soft skin of my inner thighs made my entire body squirm with unexpected pleasure, my legs clenched together, and my mouth fell open to let out a gasp of delight. And then Conor did something I simply hadn't expected – he lowered his mouth to the dripping slit between my legs.

I'd been prepared for him to continue his delicious, unbearable assault with his fingers.

I'd been prepared for him to flip me over, pull me onto my knees and enter me from behind.

I'd even been ready, half-willed him to grab the back of my head and pull
my
head down onto his cock. Hell, I could almost taste the salt in his pre-come on the back of my tongue.

But I hadn't been prepared for
this
.

My legs fell away as I simply lost control – what little control I had left – of my body. The things Conor could do with his tongue were almost indescribable. It was difficult to put into words how good he made me feel, especially as my head was pushed back with agonizing pleasure and my jaw was clenched in a lost, futile attempts not to cry out with pleasure.