Fighter.
I can’t take my eyes off his. He must be six seven, he’s huge. Nothing but yellow wraps on his hands and a pair of black shorts, showing he’s all man at a glance.
I detect a definite shift in his shorts, making me bite my lip as we share the first signs of mutual recognition and attraction from the cocking of his brow.
I’m not imagining it. He likes what he sees and I don’t need to look twice to know that it feels like Christmas, and I want him to unwrap his present now.
But whatever chemistry’s in the air has to wait. The small smile playing at one side of his mouth turns to a snarl as he senses his next opponent, who’s led into the ring to thundering applause, mixed with a few die hard boos and hisses.
“Are you bettin’ or gawkin’?”
A rough voice is matched with an equally rough face. The squat, brash bookmaker ruins my view of male perfection, the slimy wet cigar stub in the corner of his mouth forcing a sickening slurp from him as he prompts me again with a jerk of his chin.
Looking over at the fighter, I see his eyes narrow, a subtle shake of his head.
He’s telling me not to bet.
Not on him, not on this fight.
But I have to. I have no choice.
If I’m gambling with anything right now, it’s my ability not to flood my panties. My hands are trembling and my heart’s doing the foxtrot against my ribs.
“All on yellow…” I stammer, thrusting the money into the bookies grimy hands, making him frown.
“The champ? He’s just a tad over even odds… I wouldn’t bet on yellow miss…” he says softly, leaning in closer.
He’s rough, but not mean. He can see my predicament, anyone with eyes can. Like the fighter, he’s warning me off.
But it’s too late.
I’ve already lost.
Lost myself to the man I know I’d give my life for.
Yellow.
My fighter.
“All on yellow,” I say firmly, giving the fighter a tiny shrug, feeling myself sway from the hurt I feel when his eyes turn from mine.
He’s disappointed. But I know it’s not because of what I’ve done.
It’s because of what he has to do now.
CHAPTER TWO
Dillon
Before I even look, I know it’s her. The one I’ve waited my whole life for.
Sounds stupid, but fighting as long as I have, you develop a sense for certain things. You learn to feel with more than your fists.
I sense her behind me, the light in the arena seeming to get brighter the nearer she gets. I feel nervous but I know I have to turn around.
Fuck, she’s perfect!
I thought I was dreaming, or maybe took one too many to the head recently. But I knew she was coming to me somehow. I just knew she would.
But not here. Not like this.
Before I have time to dwell on the sad reality, I have to take in her perfect and positive beauty. Her everything.
She’s just right for me, thick and smooth. A chest I can see and hips I know I wanna hang onto for a week while I fill her with our babies.
Our future family.
But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
Her blond bangs frame her clear blue eyes and once I see her biting her lip, I know I stand a chance.
I know she’s feeling the same attraction I am.
It’s still too good to be true, but I drink her in, from her feet all the way up to her perfect angel face and I can’t help but growl approvingly.
Remembering where I am, who else is watching, it doesn’t take the pulsing out of my lengthening cock any, or the thunder out of my heart but it does make me instantly possessive of her.
I’ve seen her now. I knew she was coming somehow.
She’s mine.
Not theirs.
Not fuckin’ Marconi. Not anyone’s.
I almost have to shake my head, to clear the vision in front of me, but I’m too afraid it will change, worried she might disappear. I’ve heard of guys seeing things, feeling things, right before they stroke out or become permanently punch drunk.
But this is real.
She’s real.
I know she’s here because I’m meant to notice her. I know without question she’s mine.
But what’s brought her here?
Why would anyone so perfect come to such a place, filled with such people?
Money.
It’s always about money, and I can tell at a glance that she’s fallen on hard times. Sucked in by Marconi’s loan scheme and probably already paid him off twice, but those interest payments and unscheduledfees just keep piling up.
But surely she’s not gonna…?
Shit.
No. Don’t bet on me, I’m not the fighter you want to back.
Not today, sweetheart.
But she does. She hands over all her cash and I know it’s because she feels how I do, how she’s feeling the same intense excitement I am, all from just seeing each other, wanting all this other stuff to disappear so we can just be together.
Be alone, get the hell out of this place.
What she doesn’t know, what I try to tell her with my eyes, is that this fight is rigged.
I’ve won three in a row tonight, but I’m supposed to go down in the fourth, reaping Marconi back all the money his bookies paid out tonight.
It’s the oldest scam in town, but most people either don’t know, or are too scared to demand their money back.
I can tell she’s betting on me because she needs me to win, for her purse’s sake, but also because she believes in me.
The look she gives me, Christ. It takes everything I have not to march over to her, throw her over my shoulder and just keep marching.
Out of here, and into our new life together.
But she needs money, she needs to win and I need to lose.
I look away bitterly, realizing that with every angel that’s sent down,
