Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1) (6 page)

Conor used his tongue with all the precision of a lifelong trumpet player, like the soft, wet muscle had been strengthened and honed over the course of years of practice. And it was all for me.

"Jesus," I whispered. I felt bad for blaspheming, but it was all I could say.

"You're saying it wrong, love," he growled in that knee-clenchingly sexy Irish accent of his. "It's jay-sus…"

I could only moan in reply.

His tongue tickled and teased and tensed and probed at the soft, wet lips of my pussy until I grabbed his head and pushed it in. I couldn't help but think how glad I was that he wasn't the kind of man who felt that going down on a woman was beneath him. Hell, it was almost as though Conor was the complete reverse – he lived for this. Judging by the thick, engorged cock hanging lustily between his legs,

I reached out, desperately searching for the his thick member, but my hands closed only on empty air.

"Please, Conor…" I begged.

I need you inside me
, I didn't say. I didn't need to. He got the message.

"You don' ask," he grinned, limbering his way up my body, lingering for a short, sweet second over my breasts, where his mouth closed for a half second around one of my nipples, flicking that well-practiced tongue over my sensitive nubs. "You don' get."

"I'll bear that in mind," I panted, interlacing the fingers on my right hand into his hair and pulling him as hard as I could up toward my face. He didn't resist, and pushed using those thick, muscular thighs until her lips were only

I kissed him, taking my own sweet, tangy taste on his lips. I felt naughty, filthy, depraved. I felt like I was becoming the person I'd always wanted to be, like Conor was giving me an excuse to break out of my shell, to throw aside every boundary and every self-imposed rule that had ever held me down.

Speaking of holding me down
… I thought.

Conor grabbed my hands and shoved them above my head. I struggled briefly against his powerful grasp, but only for show. I was ready for this. I wanted it more than anything.

He took his cock in his hand and pressed it between my thighs, pushing its enormous head against the soaking wet lips of my pussy. I moaned as he teased it up and down my entrance. I wanted to beg him to stop, but I knew better than that. I knew that he would only delight in making me wait, and making me suffer.

This was Conor's show, and it was the only one in town.

He pushed himself inside me, thrusting an inch, no, half an inch at a time, pushing inside me with a delicious, delicate slowness that tested the very fabric of my being. My hips bucked forward of their own accord, desperately trying to feel his heat and his length inside me. He chuckled to himself, and, pushed up against him, a deep, luxurious growl rumbled through me as he did so. I brushed my cheek against his, luxuriating in the feeling of his soft stubble scratching against me as I turned my head.

Conor buried his cock as deep into my pussy as he could. And then he let loose.

Delicious tremors of electricity sparkled through my body every time his hips came crashing down against mine. I was ready to come, more ready than I'd ever been, and I couldn't wait to fail him climax inside me.

There was little enough of my brain matter still functioning under Conor's thrusting assault, since every time he pushed his thick cock further between my slit, every time he drove me closer to my impending orgasm, I almost blacked out with the pleasure.

But I didn't need to be Einstein to know one thing. This wasn't the same Conor I'd known. That Conor had been a boy. This one was a man.

"I'm getting close," I panted, looping my arm around his torso and, without meaning to, digging my nails into his skin. I just needed to get a grip on something, anything.

This Conor was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. He was relentless and probing, experienced yet still with all the energy and enthusiasm of a pubertal teenager. He was a force of nature: a hurricane, a tornado, or even a chemical reaction of pent-up sexual energy – and I was his catalyst.

Conor grunted – the only response he
could
give in the midst of his own building orgasm. He was single-minded and dedicated in his pursuit of release – but he never forgot
my
needs. He kept his thumb on my clit, holding down with a constant pressure and pushing it toward his thick, hard cock in a gentle but relentless circular motion as he thrust in and out of me, never breaking rhythm, nor pausing to catch his breath.

All those hours, months, and years of training, day after day in the ring were finally bearing fruit, though perhaps not for the reason that had been intended. Conor had a race horse's stamina. There was no chance he was simply going to leave me high and dry, I felt like he could keep thrusting for days.

I wouldn't tire of it – especially not after this long without a man, but I knew one thing: there was no way
I'd
last that long…

Electric shocks of pleasure now seemed to burst from my clit, unbidden, at the start of a journey racing toward every burning nerve ending in my body, and the heat between my legs was almost unbearable. This was it. I couldn't wait another second – my orgasm was coming, and nothing was going to stop it. I grabbed Conor's ass, pulling toward me – pulling him deeper inside me. It was a vain effort – like I could ever hope to hold back his powerful thrusts – but it told him everything he needed to know.

It was time.

"Don't stop!" I gasped.

"Just."
A breath
.

"Keep."
Another
.

"Doing."
One last.

"That!"

Conor seemed to take it as encouragement, rather than as a slight on his efforts. He was a bad boy, sure, but that didn't mean he wasn't attuned to his partner's wants and desires – and that meant me.

I wished I could see him from behind, wished I could see the knotted muscles on his thick back clenching and tensing every time he drove forward, powerfully, into me; I wished I could see the sweat dripping off his shoulder blades. As the pleasure began to build inside my mind, casting me off from all rational thought, my brain began to conjure a fantasy in which, unbelievably, Conor and I owned our own home, living together in some kind of perverted marital bliss with a mirror on the bedroom ceiling.

That was the thought that did it – the thought that pushed me over the edge into a final, sensual, world-melting climax. I felt my pelvic muscles clenching around his thick cock – doing their best to hang on, to hold his scorching hot prick inside me and never let it go.

I felt Conor's climax like a wave of heat exploding inside my body, so much heat I wondered if it would ever end, or whether it would just keep building within me, adding to the endless, relentless waves of heat already present inside me. He clutched reflexively at me, his fingers digging into my shoulder blades so powerfully in the delirious state of fugue that it almost brought tears to my eyes.

I didn't care. I'd dreamed of this moment for so long that a few slight bruises on my peach-like skin was nothing – a small, meaningless price to pay.

Conor sank back down on his forearms, finally allowing his huge, muscular bulk to rest, and for a few long seconds neither of us said a word – the room's only soundtrack the occasional, ragged punctuation of deep, restorative breaths.

"Shit," he finally panted. "That was incredible. Shit."

As I lay with my ear pressed against Conor's chest, half-drugged by the hormonal release of a mind-bendingly powerful climax and in the process of being lulled to sleep by his somnolent, slowing heart beat, my fingers absent-mindedly stroking the soft hair on his thick, scarred chest, my mind felt a peace and solitude I hadn't felt in all these years of loneliness.

It didn't last. Of course it didn't last.

BANG!

A sudden crash disturbed us, startling Conor, who leapt to his feet, stark naked, like a soldier with PTSD. He crouched on the floor, every muscle in his back rippling and bulging and stared at the door, prepared for someone to burst through it at any moment.

Dad!

Amongst the condition of sheer panic, that was the only coherent thought in my mind – and the more I considered it, the more I came to the conclusion that there was no other possibility; my father had realized that I'd slipped my minders and escaped from his control, and worse, he'd somehow realized I was here.

Did he know that Conor was the reason he'd dragged me away from Dublin in tears?

I stopped dead in my tracks, a far worse thought intruding on my mind. Was Conor's very appearance in Alexandria a simple coincidence, or was something even more nefarious at play?

Was this all just one of my father's sick games?

And if so, was Conor in on it?

C
onor

I’d fucked her because I could.

Because it was easier than actually coming to terms with what she was saying – what it all meant.

I’d fucked her because I needed to shut her up, because screwing her was easier for me to cope with than talking about what I felt.

What the hell does that say about me?

I cocked my ear toward the bathroom, checking that I could no longer hear the tell-tale sounds of old, steam-swollen wood scraping against the window frame, or the harsh clacking of the metal catch unlocking to let a woman’s half-naked body climb out.

The coast was clear. She’d made her escape.

I didn't believe for a second that the two meat-headed Russian gangsters bashing against the closed and presumably empty door of room fifty-six would be able to push their way past me to check whether I was hiding Maya. The rational side of me knew it would be better just to not give them any cause for suspicion.

Seeing her again, feeling her climax around my cock, and even the little conversation I'd allowed myself to engage in – it had all reminded me of why I'd fallen in love with her in the first place. It was like she'd awakened a long-suppressed addiction within me – and now that addiction needed feeding. Getting on her father's shit list by fucking with his halfwit henchmen would be the quickest way to get myself kicked out of Alexandria – hell, maybe even the whole state.

That chump in the Octagon earlier this evening had barely got my fighting juices flowing before I finished him off. I was itching for a fight, and these guys would play their part admirably.

But I couldn't do it. Not if I wanted to see her again.

Satisfied that Maya had made her escape, I strode over toward the room's flimsy plywood door this, catching a glimpse of my wiry, muscular – and most of all, naked – frame in an aging full-length mirror. I grabbed an empty beer bottle from the discarded garbage bag next to it, adopted a half-drunk expression and pulled the door open.

"Hey, lads," I called jauntily. "Can youse keep it down? It's been a hard day, you know?"

The two idiots barely had the processing power of a 90s Pentium II between them. The scene in front of me was like a bad comedy skit – they both pulled their lumbering attention away from the door they were splintering their way through, looked at me, then at each other, then rushed toward me.

"You will put clothes on." The right-most idiot ordered in a thick, barely intelligible Eastern European accent.

"I'll do no such thing," I replied indignantly, pretending to sway with the ill-effects of over consumption, "I'm in my own room, so I am, and I'll wear what I want, so I will. Who are you to tell me what to do?"

Sell it Conor.

I tried to swing the door closed, fully aware that I had about as much chance of success as these guys would have in a fight with me. I was right – the lightweight wooden door crunched against the thick, meaty forearm of one of the Russian gangsters. I felt like I should give them nicknames – judging by their appearances they seemed like likely candidates for parental neglect, and it was entirely possible that no one had ever bothered to give them names in the first place.

"Lads," I remonstrated, still playing the drunk Mick, "I asked you nicely once, don't make me ask again. I'm trying to get some kip, okay?"

The gangster on the left didn't have ears. I mean, he technically had them, but they didn't look like any ears I'd ever seen… I decided to call him Cauliflower. Flower, for short.

"Boss wants to see you," Flower grunted.

"Seriously, what is it with you guys and prepositions?" I quipped.

Flower looked at his friend – another barrel chested Russian. I decided I’d call him Pot because, well – with his thick chest and face reddened by years of drinking he looked like a flower pot. "Boss wants to see you," he repeated.

"I don't have a boss," I said, holding a straight face as I noticed both Flower and Pot's greedy, piggy eyes staring at my stack of winnings. "Don't pay taxes, either. Hey – eyes up here!"

Flower's eyes guiltily flickered back toward my eyes, though I couldn't help notice from the disgusted look on his face that he got a full, frank and accidental glance of my still uncovered manhood.

"You will put clothes on!" He insisted, much more forcefully this time. "Then we see boss."

I sat down on the bed, noticing some of Maya's long, dark hairs standing out against the cheap motel's vaguely white sheets. I hurriedly pulled the duvet up, hiding the evidence. As I did so, Flower's companion – Pot – waddled into the room. The man’s thick, muscular frame forced him to walk in an almost side-to-side, crablike fashion. He poked his head under the bed before, presumably satisfied that it was empty, heading toward the bathroom.

I protested feebly, hoping that Maya hadn't left any more evidence of her illicit presence in my motel room behind. Imagined images of a thong on the white-tiled floor crossed my mind, and I held my breath nervously.

Flower tossed my denim jeans, an old gray t-shirt and a frayed leather jacket at me. "Clothes," he grunted.

I kept one eye trained on Pot's movements, ready to spring into action the second he showed any hint that he'd realized this was all an elaborate deception.

"You can look at my dick all day long," I declared loudly. "For all I care. I'm not moving an inch until you tell me what the hell you're doing here."

Flower looked at me in frustration, as though completely baffled by the concept that someone would do anything other than exactly as he ordered. Well, I've never been one for following the rules…

He sighed heavily, threw his hands up and looked to the ceiling with irritation while muttering something pejorative under his breath in Russian.

"Mr. Antonov wants to see you." He said.

I cocked my head, feigning incomprehension. "Mr. Antonov? Remind me who that is again?"

He slammed his hand down on the table. "Enough! You met, tonight. He will see you. Tonight."

"You're in my house now, boyo." I remarked mildly. "A little manners would do you a world of good."

Pot gave Flower a look, shrugging his shoulders as if to indicate that they'd been mistaken, and that I was, in fact, alone in the motel room. I allowed my body to relax imperceptibly, my shoulders losing some of the tension they'd carried ever since I first started worrying about whether Maya had left something incriminating behind.

"Find what you were looking for?" I grinned cockily, safe in the knowledge that our secret was safe.

Where’s Pot gone?

A second later, I wished I’d kept my eye on him, because that was the exact moment that something hard hit the back of my head, and I crumpled, unconscious, to the floor.