Griffin: Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Ashley Hall

  And he liked it.

  “You…think it’s good?”

  “Something like that,” he replied, his eyes gleaming with sudden amusement. “Missing a few things, but that’s nothing tonight can’t rectify.”

  “Tonight?” Alright, now I was utterly lost. I looked to Stella in question only to have her shrug. She was just as confused as I was.

  “I’ve managed to get you a media pass for the Desmond-Webb match. I need you to attend so we can fit in a few lines about Griffin’s fighting style.”

  I was pretty sure my jaw hit the floor. Me? Attend Griffin’s fight? I was having enough trouble contending with the mere memory of the man. Now I’d have to see him again?

  “Alex…I…I can’t. Tonight I…” My brain rushed to think of some excuse to get me out of the event. “I have a prior commitment!”

  “Cancel it.” The man didn’t even pretend that I had a life. His response was flat, more a demand than a request. “You’ve committed to the story, Sadie, and it needs this little touch. Just hit the match, come up with some technical jargon, and try not to end up in the guys’ locker room.”

  I turned cherry from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and prayed that the world would swallow me up at that exact moment. Alex merely winked at me—winked— before stalking away.

  I was beyond mortification.

  “You lucky duck.” Trust Stella to be ever enthusiastic. Her reaction, however, only drew a glare from me as I tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with myself. Write about Griffin’s fighting style? I didn’t know the first thing about MMA matches! Alex had all but sentenced me to intensive research for the next few hours before I actually got off work.

  “How does this make me lucky? I’m supposed to be forgetting him, Stella.”

  “Right,” she returned, eying me skeptically. “Forgetting that the man screwed your brains out in a public place and beat up a camera guy for you. Good luck with that.”

  God, why did she have to remind me?

  ***

  Naturally, I spent the next few hours preparing for the ordeal I’d have to go through later on that night. While I might resent Alex for his little surprise, I was still dedicated to being good at my job, no matter what anyone in the office thought.

  I never realized that two people beating the stuffing out of one another could be so technical, and after an hour or two of reading through dozens of rules, my head was spinning. I was on my third cup of coffee for the day and I wanted nothing more than to collapse on my desk.

  I was in no condition to venture into a world unknown and watch two men throttle one another in a cage.

  Frowning, I gazed down at the media pass Alex had dropped by my desk. According to the laminated ticket, I was assigned a seat in VIP section four—very close to the stage. I would have a prime seat to observe.

  Blowing out a breath, I let my eyes closed for a moment as I attempted to calm my nerves. This was just another job. Griffin and I were on the same page; besides, it wasn’t as if he would even notice me there. He’d be too busy getting the shit kicked out of him—or kicking the shit out of his opponent.

  Leaving me free to fantasize.

  For a moment, I clicked away from numerous webpages bunched with too-small text about MMA rules and regulations and glanced at the article that had given me so much trouble.

  The pictures Gary had taken were breathtaking. He wasn’t one of Grind’s best photographers for nothing. There were several action shots of Griffin that captured his very essence. Spinning kicks, uppercuts, mid-section strikes…all executed with that God-like body gleaming with sweat.

  I was well and truly lost.

  Covering my eyes with my hands, I did all I could to forget the evening we spent together—and so, naturally, ended up re-living it.

  And not just how ridiculously, jaw-droppingly gorgeous Griffin was. The way he smiled. The way he laughed. When we were together, I felt almost like he never did that for anyone except me. I’d certainly never seen him smiling in any of his pictures. As on-edge as I’d been, the man could actually be charming when he set his mind to it. I enjoyed myself right up until the point where he kissed me.

  Then enjoyment turned to something more.

  I forced myself to take a deep breath. I could do this. Just go to the match, watch the fight, and write down some halfway intelligent sounding details. That wouldn’t be too hard, would it?

  After all, I was Sadie Warner. And I had been Sadie Warner the reporter long before I was a conquest of Griffin Webb’s.

  ***

  The place was a complete madhouse.

  I had hardly ever been to a public sporting event before, let alone a fight. I supposed there might be a few hundred people, when really there were thousands. The stadium itself was one of the premier locations in the city, and I found myself surrounded by hardcore fans that all but herded me into it.

  Luckily, I managed to step out of the throng close to the entrance and gather myself. It certainly wasn’t my scene, and, once again, I contemplated if Alex knew what he was doing sending me in there.

  I had to remind myself that it was for the story. The story was all that mattered now.

  So…why were my palms sweaty? Why was my heart fluttering in my chest at the prospect of seeing Griffin again?

  After my pass was checked, I acquired an escort who led me down into the main arena. I was still in awe of how many people could fit into the space when he directed me into a section of perhaps twelve seats right in front of the ring. I was the first one seated, which gave me a good opportunity to take in my surroundings.

  Everyone present was out for blood, it seemed like. The iron cage surrounding the ring ensured that no one escaped before the match was over, and I could only imagine what was going to occur once the match started. From the rules I’d read, I knew that, unlike in boxing, almost everything in MMA was fair game save crotch shots and sucker punches.

  And that, often, by the time everything was said and done, the floor was covered in blood.

  At the thought of seeing Griffin abused to within an inch of consciousness, my heart was suddenly in my throat. All at once, I was worried for him. I hadn’t read up much on his opponent, but Dario Desmond was one of the few guys in the world with stats better than Griffin. All the more reason for him to fight the man, I knew, but my having to watch it?

  I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach.

  Slowly, as the time for the fight drew nearer, the seats around me filled. I was startled to realize that the attendants were mostly women, with a few male reporters scattered here and there. And not only that, I noted, chewing my lip nervously, it was a bevy of quite possibly all the most beautiful women in the city.

  Redheads, brunettes, platinum blondes—all tanned to within an inch of their lives, perfectly coiffed, and expertly made up, wearing outfits that looked as though they might be more at home in a club than in a fighting arena.

  I eyed one raven-haired beauty with crimson lips wearing a mini-skirt and top that barely covered her goods. She took one look at the other women present, including myself, and stuck her nose in the air. If one were to believe her attitude, she might have been the most important person there.

  Then again, the others weren’t acting very differently.

  In no time, the VIP area was completely filled, and the few male reporters there were trying pretty unsuccessfully to flirt with any woman who would give them the time of day. Typical males.

  These women looked like the sort that didn’t get involved unless you had a private jet and oodles of money.

  And they were in Griffin’s VIP section.

  Inexplicably, my heart began to sink.

  “Ladies and gentleman, please take your seats!” A voice from the loudspeaker made me jump as it echoed about the arena. “The fight will be starting in five minutes!”

  It was as if the statement set off a chain reaction among all the women seated around me. The ones sitting
in the front seats seemed to be trying their hardest to block those in the rear seats—me among them. There was a slew of passive aggressive statements that were hurled through the air and all but made me squirm in my seat.

  “He needs to see me. Calm down, honey.”

  “No, he needs to see me. I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

  “Both of you are insane. Just calm down and watch the match. I’m in plain view.”

  I realized all at once that these were all women who, at one point or the other, must have meant something to Griffin. What exactly that something was, I couldn’t be sure, but I was sure they couldn’t all be the loves of his life.

  Christ, there had to be at least fifteen of them.

  They were thin, classless, utterly gorgeous things, bickering and fighting like high schoolers. Usually, I would feel completely above women of such caliber. Just then, however, I felt sick to my stomach.

  It was obvious that these women, all of them, had slept with Griffin. I had to wonder if it had happened the same way it had with me. Had he just ripped their clothes off in a semi-public place and gone at it, or had he played the slow seducer, only to dump them later for his next conquest?

  I should have been angry, disgusted. Anything but what I actually felt.

  And what I felt was jealousy.

  Imagining Griffin touching, kissing…fucking all these other hussies… did they even shower before they moved on to the next man in line? I’d heard somewhere that Griffin stood to earn a cool fifteen million if he won this fight. Were the vultures hanging around, hoping that he spent some of that money on them?

  I scowled at the very thought. The only reason I’d even gotten involved with Webb in the first place was to do my job. Of course, such a thing was hard to do when the man was so ungodly gorgeous, when his seldom heard laugh was so unbelievably genuine. Chewing my lower lip contemplatively, I wondered if any of the women here knew that if he wasn’t a fighter, he would be a cop. He wanted to help people, despite the bad boy persona he spread around. I wondered if they knew how he liked his steak, or how often he frequented Filene’s. Did they even care?

  No doubt they were too busy trying to be in the limelight, spreading their legs, and hoping to open up his wallet to really address what kind of person he was.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our visiting opponent! Standing at six feet three and weighing in at one hundred ninety pounds, we have Dario Desmond!” I already knew from looking at internet images what Desmond looked like, but up close he was even more of a monster than I’d expected. Taller than Griffin and with about twenty pounds on him, he hailed from the Arabian Peninsula and had an almost perfect fighting record. Zero losses, eighteen wins, fourteen of them by knockout. At the announcement of his presence, the crowd proceeded to catcall and harangue him—they were touchy, and expectedly so. Desmond had come onto Griffin’s turf.

  He didn’t seem to mind though. The bearded, dark-skinned man’s expression was almost predatory, his golden eyes bright and gleaming with dark intent as he danced from one foot to the other.

  “And next, we have our reigning champion and city’s son!” The announcer’s voice boomed with pride, almost as if he spoke of someone close to him. The lights dimmed as bright spots flickered on in the far corner of the arena. “Standing at six feet two and weighing in at one hundred eighty-five pounds, number three in line for the heavyweight MMA world title, Griffin Webb!”

  The crowd went wild.

  Though I couldn’t actually see him, as everyone in the arena had risen to their feet, images of Griffin were projected on all the big screens in the huge space. Even though it had only been a week since I’d seen him last, he took my breath away.

  He was dressed in a black silk robe and matching shorts, hair pulled back from his finely boned face, that gorgeous mouth of his set in a hard line. Green eyes glinted devastatingly, intimidatingly, and my breath caught as I took in the long, healing cut that ran the length of his jaw and under his chin.

  When the hell had he gotten that? Had someone in the gym gone a little too hard?

  Though the crowd was roaring in anticipation of the fight, in that moment I found myself intensely concerned with the minute imperfection on Griffin’s face. Had he gotten into a fight? Had someone hurt him? He hadn’t been in the news ever since our unfortunate incident at Filene’s. What could have happened in a week?

  To the raucous music of the crowd he made his way down the aisles and into the cage. I realized then just how close I was to the actual event—not more than twenty full feet away. My view was somewhat ruined by all the women scrambling to their feet to try to get a glimpse of him.

  My mind instantly went back to the photography shoot with Gary. I had pretended I wasn’t watching, but I was. Every powerful kick and sinuous move of that muscled form of his. I remembered how easily he’d lifted me onto the table at Filene’s…how quickly he’d slid into me and how sublime his cock had felt inside me.

  And just like that, my panties were drenched.

  My face flamed as I realized how easily the memory of the man had gotten me wet in a crowded place.

  By that point, several well-muscled men were forcing the women around me back into their seats so the people behind us could see. I tried not to grimace as several thongs were exposed by their seated position, shifting in my chair so I wouldn’t get an eyeful. The motion, unfortunately, brought me into contact with the male reporter seated to my right.

  When I jostled him, the graying man looked me over in a long sweep. Then, he very deliberately stared at the extremely buxom, scantily clad woman on my left. As I always did, I was dressed somewhat modestly, in a brown button-up top and a knee-length skirt. Suffice it to say, I looked pretty damn dowdy compared to the other bimbos in my section.

  Mr. Middle-Aged arched a brow, his mouth quirking in a smile just short of mocking. “Are you Webb’s sister or something?”

  I’ve never been a violent person, but I could have punched him in the mouth.

  His sister? I knew I tended to dress conservatively, but was I really that bad?

  As Griffin and his opponent faced one another, ready to begin the match, I glared at the reporter before turning away from him to force myself to watch the fight. As I did so, I yanked the first two buttons of my shirt open before untucking it and rolling the fabric up to expose my pale midriff. I had a pretty alright body, if most of the males eying me around the office were any indication. I was among inappropriate company, so why not blend the hell in?

  I was somewhere between irritation and insanity as I tied my shirt below my breasts and pulled the neck down to further expose my cleavage. I released my hair from its tight knot at the base of my neck to let it spill over my shoulders in waves. Rising slightly out of my seat, I hiked up my skirt until it reached thigh length, tucking the waistline to compensate for the extra length. There was little I could do about my no-nonsense flats, but my legs were long enough. My mouth set into a tight line, I whipped my tiny makeup bag out of my purse and applied the reddest lipstick I had—that was to say, something a mild coral color. But when I looked in the mirror, I found myself far more gratified with my reflection. I was just as exposed as the women around me, without half the makeup.

  As a bonus, I wasn’t showing my underwear off to the entire cosmos, which I had to be grateful for. My white cotton bikini briefs were hardly flattering. Then again, I hadn’t thought to buy skimpy underwear in half an age. I’d been far too focused on my career to concentrate on being sexy.

  Or at least sexy in the context of what these women considered alluring.

  I was so wrapped up in my little attempt to flee ““sister” territory that I almost missed the fight starting. But I couldn’t have ignored the crowd’s roar of excitement if I’d been on my deathbed. It yanked my attention back to the ring, where Griffin and Desmond were circling one another carefully, sizing each other up.

  I immediately forgot that I was supposed to
be taking notes, that this was for the purpose of a job, and that I hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place.

  All that mattered was watching the match.

  It was more brutal than I ever could have imagined.

  Within the first five minutes, it was evident that Desmond’s extra height and twenty pounds gave him an undeniable advantage. He had a longer reach, and when the man went to punch, the force behind his movement was devastating. Griffin managed to dance around him for a good half of that time before Desmond started landing hits.

  The smaller fighter’s mouth was quickly bloodied, and his ribs bruised. Every impact visibly drove him back and I found myself swallowing my alarm. This was nothing like the sparring matches that occurred in the gym, where it was obvious that Griffin was on top. Desmond wouldn’t stop unless the ref told him so, and it looked like he had the upper hand.