by Rie Warren
“I didn’t know you cared, Mykhailo.” Anya’s gaze lifted to him.
As he shifted to her—leaning right over my seat—I got a prime front row view of his bitable ass.
“Just curious, that’s all.”
Curious in his world seemed to be as pissed as a carjacker caught mid-hotwire in mine, because if his jaw got any stiffer it was going to turn into concrete.
Just like my cock at that moment.
“And what if we were having liaison?” my evil partner in crime asked.
“I’m just saying he shouldn’t let sex get in the way of training.”
I snorted. No sex was getting in the way of my training.
Michael swiveled to hit me with a glare. “Funny?”
Mikey was not happy about my supposed nights of torrid passion with Anya. I did a touchdown dance in my seat. And WTF? Is he interested in me?
Nah. Couldn’t be.
“Not at all, sir.” I cleared my throat, adjusted my glasses, and opened the book I’d paginated with my fingertip.
“Sir?”
“You always like giving me orders,” I mumbled.
“Anywhat—”
“Anyhow,” Michael interrupted Anya.
“Or anywho.” Sean rolled his stogie to one side of his mouth to add his two cents, reminding me both he and Dev were avid observers to this Twilight Zone conversation.
“Past’ zakroi. Liam . . . he ees not my type.”
“He’s everybody’s type,” my nightlong, nighttime, wanna-nut fantasy said. Then Michael’s cheeks turned pink. “You know, if they like thugs.”
It was all fun and games until someone called me a thug. From out of nowhere I went from vaguely amused to absolutely enraged.
I jumped to my feet.
Michael stumbled back.
Hands went up on all sides of him to catch the man in case there was a big timber moment.
I prodded his chest, backing him into the aisle.
“What the fuck is your hang-up, man?” I shouted. “Missed the sex-Skype with your boyfriend last night or something?”
Maybe it was the way I pushed his chest one last time, or perhaps it was my wild accusation, but something sure set Mikey off. Before I knew it—and I had excellent, precision-trained reflexes—he knocked me backward and got right in my space, right in my face as I splatted into an empty seat.
“You got a problem with gays?” His chest pumped. His eyes turned silver. That goddamn muscle at the side of his jaw jumped.
Anya gawked at everything. “This plane suddenly feels really small, like tin cat.”
I didn’t have time to work through her mixed metaphor along the lines of a can of sardines and a cat on a hot tin . . .
“Four hundred-plus pounds of muscle and buckets of testosterone will do that. Yep.” Sean’s gruff voice sounded.
Michael leaned in so close his mouth almost brushed mine. “Answer the question.”
I’d forgotten the frigging question. With his warm lips so close to mine all I could think was Yes!
“No!” Dev frantically shook his head.
I squirmed in the seat.
Here I was, a bigtime undefeated boxer, quailing in front of Michael. And big surprise, my cock decided it liked him being absolutely masterful over me.
“No. I totally embrace the rainbow of love.” Thank you for the sound bite, Devlin.
And I am a first-class stalker asshole who wants to fuck you silly, Michael. Kill me now.
“Fine.” Michael took a step back.
“Good?” I asked.
“I’m in a bad mood.”
“I got that.” My hands relaxed on the armrests.
“Me, too,” Anya chirped.
“Ditto,” said Devlin.
Michael cracked his neck.
He pointed to the back of the plane. “So I’ll stay on my side and you stay on yours.”
“Yeah.” My voice cracked like his neck had.
Jesus Christ, my palms sweated.
His eyes snapped to my lips when I licked them.
Then he leaned across me to roughly whisper in my ear, “We’re done for now. But I plan on taking everything out on you in the ring later.”
Guh. What?
Fuck My Cock.
The bastard thing almost punched right through my pants to get at him and his promise. Beat my ass, fuck it, I didn’t care.
That time I nodded frantically. I probably looked goddamn comical. Anya giggled. Dev glared. Did I mention my palms were sweating?
I made sure I didn’t squeak.
With my nose pressed to Mikey’s and our mouths so close I tasted the sweet rush of his breath on my lips, I growled. “I can’t fucking wait to take you down.”
I had just enough time to enjoy the way his pupils dilated before he spun around and paced to the rear of the plane.
Half an hour later, Anya stood and stretched. I’d lost all focus on the George R.R. Martin masterpiece and stared off into space instead; space populated by images of angry Mikey pounding me with his cock in my ass instead of his fists in my face.
Anya the troublemaker dawdled in the aisle for a minute or so after returning from the can before she slipped back into her seat. She snuggled against me with her head on my shoulder.
I patted her hair awkwardly. “Um. Hey there.”
I didn’t need to glance across me to know Devlin had sat up and taken an interest in this new turn of events. Like a guy could go from gay to straight just because a pair of boobs brushed his arm.
Squeezing Anya’s shoulder, I tried to remove her from the full body cast she formed against me. “You know, I think you’re awesome, Anya, I really do but—”
“Oh please, lapochka. I know you are not interested in me. You practically light the room on fire every time you look at Mykhailo.”
Ohhh shit.
Dev definitely heard that. It sounded like he’d coughed his cell right out of his throat.
Oh fuck.
Thankfully Sean remained dead to the world with his mouth gaping open and drool collecting in the corner of his lips.
“Your secret, it is safe with me.” Anya cuddled closer, and it was kind of like sitting on the couch, watching TV with one of my kid sisters—so long as neither one of them ever thought about doing the bikini-clad, high-heeled strut around the boxing ring thing.
Ever.
Not that it wasn’t a respectable profession, but—
Anya dragged one faux-fingernail down the middle of my chest with a loud purr that reverberated throughout the plane.
I vaguely heard someone swearing from behind us, and it wasn’t Dev that time.
“I just want to see if we can get green-eyed giant to rear up again,” Anya mentioned.
I looked at her, baffled. My cock was not green. Maybe she was confusing the Jolly Green Giant with the one-eyed snake?
“Mykhailo—make heem jealous.”
“Green-eyed monster?”
“Da! That’s what I say!”
If nothing else, Anya was a comfortable friend. She understood me. I let my head fall back as my fingertips skimmed her arm. I was fucking wiped. Physically and emotionally pushing the red line.
The bumpety-bump-bump of landing gear hitting the runway woke me up. I yawned, attempting to cover my mouth to be polite and shit, but I was tangled up in one of those soft fleece airline blankets—the kind they fleeced you for nowadays on commercial flights.
Anya sat next to me, beaming. “He came back to cover you up.”
“Who, he?” My synapses were not fully online.
She arched an eyebrow in my direction. “Who do you think, who?”
Not Sean, he was still crashed out, his cigar stub rolling in the aisle.
Not Devlin, he’d hopped up as soon as the seatbelt light went off. After retrieving his rolling suitcase, he aimed one finger at me while he talked a mile a minute on the perpetual iPhone.
So that only left . . .
Michael.
&
nbsp; I leaned out into the aisle and looked back.
As soon as he met my gaze, electricity arced between us. Either he was still angry about whatever the tabloids had cooked up about me and my shenanigans last night, or he just couldn’t wait to work out some sexual frustration c/o Boyfriend Wade.
He sucked in a breath and blinked wide. A flush rose up his neck as he broke eye contact.
Or maybe there’s something else.
Chapter Seven
Rough and Tumble
THERE WAS SOMETHING ELSE all right. It entailed me hocking up my motherfucking entrails while Michael put me through my paces in the ring a mere three hours after we arrived at my new home base, Tribeca.
Sure, he gave me enough time to fuel up on liquids and carbs, dig out my training gear, boxing boots, and a fresh jockstrap before he came pounding on the door of my place. For convenience sake, he’d taken an apartment two floors down from me.
His place was probably already unpacked and perfectly appointed. Mine was a maze of boxes, books, and furniture shoved against the walls. I’d unearthed a plate, utensils, and a water bottle. Toilet paper and a towel or two hung in the bathroom, and it was Home Sweet Home.
At least the views were good, but I wasn’t talking about the one outside the window that showed the Hudson River. I meant Michael inside my living room in a muscle shirt, b-ball shorts, and slate-colored eyes.
“Let’s go.” He nodded at the door.
Apparently he was still spitting nickels about whatever went down with boyfriend Wade last night.
“Uh, okay.”
“I reserved the ring at Iron Fists Gym for two hours. No observers, just you and me.”
That would sound so much better if he said he’d reserved a fucking honeymoon suite for us to really take it out on each other. Either way, getting sweaty with the man would do me just fine. After I remembered how to lace up my sneakers.
We jogged three blocks south to a shit-hole-looking gym. I felt right at home. Michael didn’t give me a chance to appreciate the utter ugliness of the building before he dragged me inside.
We got changed in the locker room. The air thick with silent tension, he wrapped my fists and I did his.
We headed for the ring and warmed up for a few minutes. Maybe I’d treat him to some Muay Thai moves I’d picked up along the way. That would loosen him up, until he puked his guts up.
Music pumped from the speakers as we faced one another. One ref was on hand—just to keep it clean—otherwise the big concrete block of a room was empty.
The gym smelled of sweat, blood, hot bodies and all the things I loved about this sport.
With our hands wrapped and our shirts off, we laid into each other. Two incredibly fit twenty-four-year-old men sparring with no care or caution. I’d never put my full power behind my punches at Michael before, but he didn’t pussy-foot around and I wasn’t going to let him plow straight through me this time.
AC/DC blared around us. The balls of our feet bounced off the mat. Our arms arced through the air. It was like fucking ballet.
With blood.
In other words, I loved it.
I eyed Michael’s gleaming torso with the colorful tat. His ink was amazing. I almost lost my concentration because of it. The design was obviously one of a kind, just like the wings on my back, but his stretched all the way along his right abdominal wall and his ribcage front and back. The magnificent tattoo was some kind of highly stylized bird of prey—maybe a hawk. Huge wings elongated to his back and up his shoulder, but its scaly foot was tethered by a jess that wound around his hip. The dark gray glowing eye matched Michael’s in hue. The words Fight and Flight curled through it all.
Those very words resonated with me.
Hell, Michael’s body resonated with me. He was built of muscles over muscles, too many to count.
“You want some of this?” I pounded my chest.
“Yeah.” He gave me a feral grin then refitted his mouthguard.
The snarling, growling, grinning blond man charged me.
I ducked, spun, punched.
He came right back at me hit-for-hit.
My shoulder numbed from his jabs. His ribs turned bright red. My face, already hurt from last night, took another lashing.
“You boys ’bout done?” the ref called over.
I breathed long and deep, peering through damp hair at Michael.
He shook his head. “Nah.”
The total body torment went on and on. Neither of us cried mercy. If he was pissed off, so was I. I just wasn’t sure what I’d done to make him go all pow-pow-pow on me. I didn’t really much care. The scent of his clean perspiration was as much of an aphrodisiac as the visual of his sweating body.
I blocked a vicious jab to my face. “You’re being a dick.”
He spun away before my fist connected with his stomach. “Back atcha.”
If he wanted me, he sure had a funny way of showing it. Killing someone via sheer bodily torture didn’t usually lead to love scenes or make-out sessions. Anya was way the fuck off the mark there.
“What’s your beef, bro?” I gasped after a particularly stinging punch.
“I think you should be more discreet.” He whipped his head out of the way just as my left hook whistled past.
“Huh?”
“With Anya. And the other women. Or all the women, if you really like Anya.”
“Kidding me?”
He jogged in front of me on his feet. Left, right, left, right. “Nope.”
“This is about Anya?”
“Yep.”
“Bull and shit.” I kicked his legs out from under him and followed him down to the mat.
I didn’t cock my fist to beat his face, but only because it was too pretty to injure.
I restrained his massive thighs with my knees. “You’re beginning to sound like Dev.”
“Call! That move is not allowed,” the ringside ref shouted.
“’S’okay. We’re not playing by the rules here, are we, Michael?”
“Nope.” His hips bucked up, and his crotch hit my growing hardness.
Holy shit.
I aligned my torso with his. Lowering myself another inch over him, I imagined Mikey bare and begging beneath me, our cocks thrusting together.
“Dev’s a slick Mick.” His chest pumped up and he tried to push me off him.
“He’s not even a true Mick and PS. that’s an insult to my Irish upbringing, preppy motherfucker.” I pushed down on his shoulders.
“Get up, you big bastard.” With no warning at all Michael spanked my ass hard.
A resounding smack rang through the air.
His eyes widened.
Mine almost rolled back in my head.
That was so hot. I’d never imagined him slapping my ass before.
I pumped against him once then reared back in horror.
Finally the pinched-sphincter expression he’d worn all day relaxed. He licked his lips in a slow motion move I wanted to repeat with my tongue on his mouth.
“Come on, man. Let’s hit the showers.” He bucked against me one more time, and I swear to fuck there was an extra, slow-grinding motion to his hips.
“What?” I croaked.
“You stink, you fucker. Get off me so we can get showered up.”
Oh yay. Because both of us getting naked with water and suds is a great idea. You’ll drop the bar of soap between my legs and stoop down to scoop it up . . .
I followed slowly after him, strangling my dick in a fist hidden behind my workout towel. “I’m not doing yoga after.”
“Yes, you are.”
“What’s the point? Get cleaned up to sweat some more?”
“Loosen your muscles to limber up.”
After we reached the locker room, Michael undressed right in front of me while I forgot to breathe. There was no possible way anything was going to limber me up after the visuals he provided.
First he skimmed his shorts off his long, well-muscled legs. H
e stood and stretched then kicked off his thin leather boots. A sheer white mesh jockstrap didn’t so much say peekaboo as make a mouthwatering package of his long thick dick and crisp trimmed pubes.
He pulled the waistband out then down, slowly uncovering a meaty swinging cock and perfect pink sac.
I choked a little.
The jockstrap pinged me in the chest, slingshot from his hands. I grabbed the warm white bundle, barely able to restrain myself from bringing it to my face.
“You shy all of a sudden, champ?”
No, I’m dying over here.
I dropped his jockstrap and shed my sweaty gear. I watched his backside all the way to the shower stalls. Broad shoulders with freckles. The huge fan of his lats and delts down to his glutes. Glinting gold fuzz on the backs of his thighs up to an ass so tight and smooth he’d have to bend over and clasp himself open before I got a peek at his sweet ring.
The hot water jetted on. I needed cold. Ice cold. Arctic cold. He passed soap to me, then shampoo after running his hands all over his body and closing his eyes in absolute ecstasy under the spray.
Goddamn, his cock was beautiful. It lay on his thigh, reaching low. Hard, he’d fill both my hands and my mouth. He was cut, unlike me. His wide flared head popped and a long thick vein pumped.
Michael checked me out, too. To him it was probably just locker room guy shit. But I looked good. He made sure of that. Not an ounce of fat. Tall, fit, with black hair in a line down my abs and thatched around my shaft. My biceps flexed extra hard when I rinsed off the shampoo. I slid one hand down to clean my foreskin, gently pulling it back so the plump purple head showed.
Michael’s mouth dropped open. His cock stirred. He faced away to finish his shower.
Oh God, oh God . . . trouble.
Arousal shivered down my spine. His ass was right there. The globes wet and shiny, and rivulets of water streamed down his tight crack.
Instead of stepping up to him, pressing myself against him, I backed out of the shower. I grabbed a towel for a hasty dry-off then sat on a bench to soak up water from my hair with a rub-rub-rub.
Bare wet feet slid into my vision.
“I’m not doing yoga,” I repeated.
“Yes, you are.” Michael wrapped his damp towel around my neck and drew me to my feet.
His mouth was so close. I thought he’d kiss me.