The Beauty and the Brawler

by Winter, Nikki

  The Beauty

  & The Brawler

  by

  Nikki Winter

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are no to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Nikki Winter

  Editor: Katriena Knights

  Cover Art: Marteeka Karland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.

  Dedication

  There are no words. Just none. Okay, there are a few but after I get done with this dedication I’m going into hibernation…like a bear. A big angry circus bear. This story… Lord on high. Bills, as usual, you were a doll. Thank you. Janet, yes we are all aware that you have laid claim to Trip and Paz. Have at it. Drea, Luciano is all yours. You’re welcome. To everyone who is going to read this…blame my characters for the shenanigans about to ensue. Just blame ‘em all.

  Nikki

  Luciano “The Philly Brawler” Antonelli was a fighter. He fought on the streets as a kid, he fought in business as a man, he fought in the ring as a world champion. As his gift graduated, so did his way of thinking. His fighting never stopped, just his methods. Twenty odd years later and he’s found himself fighting for something entirely different—the heart of a woman he’s wanted from the first moment he heard her voice. The second opportunity knocks, he takes a leap composed from faith and bravado, succeeding. Perhaps a little too much. Now he’s thinking up lullabies and trying to determine how to convince radio star Samara Blackwell that he wants her for more than just the life they’ve created resting on the inside of her ever growing belly. Is this one battle where he’ll have to call a draw? If the behavior of his obstinate little media queen is any indication than it just might be. But he’d never backed down from stepping in the ring with anyone. And he’s not about to start now.

  Contents

  Prologue. 7

  Chapter One. 10

  Chapter Two. 21

  Chapter Three. 29

  Chapter Four 36

  Chapter Five. 46

  Chapter Six. 53

  Chapter Seven. 61

  Chapter Eight 70

  Chapter Nine. 78

  Chapter Ten. 87

  Chapter Eleven. 96

  Chapter Twelve. 103

  Epilogue. 107

  Prologue

  “I’m trying to determine whether or not I want you hard and fast first or slow but still just as hard.”

  That voice. That. Damn. Voice. It was the reason she was here right now. The reason she couldn’t draw in a normal breath at the moment. The reason the apex of her thighs was soaked. And the reason she was about to do something she’d been wrestling with for a very long time now. The day Samara Blackwell laid eyes on Luciano Antonelli, somehow she knew they’d end up here.

  No matter how much she fought it. No matter how much she growled, snarled, and snapped at him. No matter how many times she threatened to give him something that would make his scrotum implode, she. Knew. The moment those thickly lashed, warm amber eyes met her own, that full, kissable mouth hitched up on the right side, and that rough, Philly-boy, sand-grated voice reached her ears, she. Knew. She blamed Nyssa for this shit.

  It was her sister’s fault, and Samara would go to her grave claiming that. She’d been able to avoid Luciano for the better part of six years since she no longer lived in state and only came to visit occasionally and yet here they were. While over sixty people spent their night throwing back shots and celebrating Nyssa’s thirty-second—a number her sibling would never admit to—here she was, in his home, in his bedroom...

  She didn’t reply to Luciano’s words, instantly knowing he wasn’t asking her. Bastard. The only reason he was still talking was because he knew what it did to her; knew every rough whisper against the shell of her ear made her tremble.

  “Maybe hard and fast?” He chuckled, and more cream eased from her already moistened core. Huge hands slid along her sides, fingers tracing nonsensical patterns on her barely covered skin. “Not too sure I can be gentle right about now. Hopefully you’ll forgive me for that later.”

  That was the only warning she got before she was spun around, her back pushed against a wall as his head descended. Mouths nipped and sucked, tongues dancing around one another, pulling, licking. With every caress of his lips against her own, Samara’s thighs clenched. His hands were everywhere. In her hair, on her shoulders then beneath her dress as he stole the breath from her lungs.

  She was doing this. Really going through with it. Okay, she and two and a half glasses of absinthe were going through with it, but she was the vessel the alcohol was so obviously using so that counted for something, right? Besides, with Luciano’s fingers skirting the edges of her panties, her awareness was on one thousand and her judgment was quite clear. For every roll of his middle finger across her lace-covered clit, her hips jerked forward until he finally gripped the backs of her thighs and wrapped her legs around his waist. Her pelvis slammed into his own, something the size of a cucumber grinding against her.

  God, he felt amazing between her legs. Why had she been denying herself this? The more he moved against her, the more every inhibition she had faded. Every doubt went up in flames. Her pussy clenched, her hips rolled. Leaning in, Luciano gripped one hard nipple through her dress with his teeth, tugging on it.

  Jesus Christ, how did they get here? Oh, right, a three-hour drive, Nyssa, and absinthe. Not to mention years and years of verbal threats and the promise of a fucking she’d never forget clear in his eyes every time he gazed at her. Whether it be from across the room or inches away from one another, Samara had always seen that promise. It was loud and apparent.

  Luciano finally released her mouth as she tugged on his caramel-colored curls. She watched his Adam’s apple bob. “Definitely fast and hard.”

  With one hard rip, her panties disappeared. He backed away for a moment to drop to his knees. She felt his tongue on her before she had a moment to really process what was happening, and by that time he’d bent one of her legs to place it over his shoulder, French kissing her core in a way that made the muscles in her tummy lock up.

  Then she was screaming and coming and gripping a fistful of his hair. Luciano stood, stripping out of his shirt, a condom materializing in his hand. He pressed his lips against her ear and whispered, “Non ho finito con te ancora, bella.”

  God save her...

  Chapter One

  The ringing, it had to stop. She wasn’t sure whether or not it was coming from her phone or her head, but it had to stop. It had to stop now. The best way to make it stop? Throwing the phone across the room until all she heard was the crack of plastic then nothing.

  Rolling over was the first option and pulling the comforter back over her head was the second. Both held appeal. So much appeal. And yet, the most she could do was stay on her side and pray to God above that whatever little she’d forced down her throat as food the night before wouldn’t come back up...again.

  Samara was in bad shape. The worst shape that she’d ever been in. Even worse than the hangover of ’95 when she
found herself taking shots out of football helmets and announcing she was going into the porn industry. Of course that stopped when Nyssa got hold of her. What better use for older sisters than to keep you from fucking yourself up beyond all recognition at a frat party you weren’t even supposed to be attending?

  “God, it’s me, the one you haven’t talked to since Easter Sunday when I punched that kid in the balls because he tried to steal my eggs during the hunt.” She took a deep breath. “How about you just kill me instead of dragging it out?”

  She’d never been this sick before. Even having the flu and sharing a room with Nyssa while her older sister entered DEFCON One of her period hadn’t felt this fucking awful. The part that frustrated her the most was the fact she didn’t even know where it came from or why. It had started about a week ago with nausea and then...

  She lost her balance when she jerked up in bed, rolling over the edge after getting tangled in her sheets and hitting the floor. Her mouth opened to scream but no real sound left. Just a hoarse croak upon impact.

  With slow, shaky movements, she stood and hobbled over to her tablet, which rested on her desk. Powering it up, she shifted from one foot to the other. Christ on high, it was Thursday. When had that happened? Samara did a mental calculation of how many days she’d been on her ass.

  “Three days,” she murmured. “I’ve been in bed for three days.” Which would explain all the goddamn ringing of her phone. “Shit, shit, shit.” She had a job...and a life...and a cat!

  Samara’s eyes scanned her bedroom before she stumbled toward the door and jerked it open. “Manfred!” Nothing. Oh, God, what if he’d....

  “Manfred!” Her legs carried her as fast as they could, the simple movement causing her tummy to tumble. She headed for her tabby’s favorite hiding place—beneath the sectional in her living room.

  Dropping down, she turned her head, staring until wide, yellowish-green irises stared back. “Oh, baby,” Samara wiggled her fingers. “Mama’s so sorry. Can you come out for me?”

  There was a small mewl before he began to ease forward, more and more of his s'mores-swirled fur revealed. Then he was winding around her legs. She scooped him up, rubbing noses with him and feeling like utter shit for forgetting her favorite baby boy.

  “I’m such a bitch, Manny.” Her fingers scratched behind his ears and beneath his chin until he purred. “While I was stumbling around the kitchen did I at least remember to put some food out for you?” She started in that direction to find both bowls halfway full.

  “At least I’m good for something, right, baby?”

  He wiggled until she let him down, tossing her a look over his shoulder that distinctly said, “Bitches be neglecting...”

  Shit was harsh.

  Carefully, Samara made her way back to her bedroom and sat on the edge of the mattress, head in her hands. She still felt like a failed ninja assassin attempt had been committed against her, but things weren’t as bad as the days before. Speaking of days gone by...

  Her eyes strayed to her tablet again before a tinkling sound rang out in the room. Her notebook screen lit up, a Skype call coming through; the screen name distinctly said, FuckYouPayMe. Lovely.

  With a resigned sigh, she hobbled over and sat in front of it, hitting the answer button and knowing who would be on the other side of the call. The only person who resorted to video harassment when phone calls weren’t answered—Nyssa.

  “Dude, you look like stir-fried shit.”

  Samara’s lip curled as she gazed into the camera and said with a sincere heart, “Being that I can’t reach you at the moment, do me a small favor and stab yourself in the face for me, ’kay? Thanks.”

  The response of her cultured, Ivy League-educated, intellectual older sibling? “Sammie looks like shit...Sammie looks like shit...”

  Narrowing her eyes as her sister swayed back and forth whilst singing what was so obviously her new favorite song, Samara asked, “How much did we drink today?”

  Nyssa gave her a wide grin. “Just a few shots.” Then she hiccupped.

  “And that answers all my questions...” Her eyes drifted to the time. It was nine in New York, which meant the same for Philly, but it was still Thursday. “Starting the celebration a little early, eh? Couldn’t wait for the weekend at least?”

  Her sister waved her off. “Not celebrating...drowning my sorrows with”—a huge bottle came into view—“my best friend Jack!”

  Which meant one thing. Samara rubbed her eyes. “You have another fight with Sunny?”

  Sansone Sultana, the man who was in love with her sister but completely convinced Nyssa was oblivious to him. The man who Nyssa was in love with but couldn’t seem to see because her head was up her ass. And the adoptive brother of the man Samara had done very dirty, slightly unholy, possibly illegal things to just about a month ago. Oh, weren’t they just a delightful mix of fucked up?

  “Shhh!” Nyssa said loudly, placing a finger to the screen as if placing it on Samara’s lips. “We don’t speak that name here!”

  “And here comes the crazy train...” Samara kept a silent countdown until her sister got that look. The look that said she was about to go on an angry, drunken rant. Oh, joy, oh, rapture.

  Yeah, God? Still looking for that quick death. Just let me know when You’re ready.

  “No.” Nyssa shook her head. “I’m not going to talk about him.” She exhaled. “But we can talk about why you’ve been MIA for three days from your show and not answering your phone.”

  Samara’s mouth twisted. “Shouldn’t you be wobbling around right about now and falling down instead of articulating your concern?”

  “You see this bottle?” Nyssa waved said bottle. “I’ve only had a third, which means I am coherent enough to grill you like a normal older sister but not good enough to attempt dancing...or any other movement that would take me out of this chair.”

  “Thank you so much for clarifying that.”

  “I’m hearing sarcasm, but I’m just too rocked off to give a shit.” Her sister sat back. “Now tell me why your broadcasts at WKZ have been sans Sammie, the Voice of Choice for the last few days.”

  “How do you even know that?” While Samara’s sister had chosen a lucrative career as a sports agent in Philly where she ran her offices with Sansone, Samara herself had chosen journalism. Why? Because she apparently had a knack for getting people comfortable enough to reveal their deepest, darkest, most disturbing secrets to her...oh, and millions of others.

  Her career had started with a small segment on a local talk show in Philly, then she got a job offer to do regular interviews for moguls and millionaires on air in the wonderfully Big Apple—the only place she loved just as much as home. Seven years later, and her early morning show “Choice Words” was one of the top-rated radio programs in the industry. Now the question that remained was, how was she going to explain her sick days to her station manager?

  Ava Burch was a far cry from the average boss, but Samara didn’t want to push her luck. She’d need to call as soon as she got Nyssa to swear she’d drag her ass to a bed somewhere. Preferably Sansone’s...

  “I’ve been sick.” Samara finally answered.

  “Unh-hunh...” Her sister’s eyes narrowed on her. “You’ve been sick a lot lately.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So...?” Nyssa’s eyebrows rose until they were practically touching her hairline. “Maybe you want to take a visit to a little place we like to call the hospital.”

  “And maybe you need to start learning how to use your big-girl voice with Sunny.”

  “I’ll hit the end button on this call. I swear to God.”

  “I can’t even begin to tell you how much joy it would bring me should you follow through with that threat.”

  Nyssa pouted. “You’re mean.”

  “I’m honest, and I feel like someone has been kicking me in the ovaries for the last few days or so...” Samara’s words trailed off at the word ovaries. Her gaze once again drift
ed to her tablet. She snatched it up, thumbing through the screens until she reached the app every woman should have at some point—the one that tracked which week DEFCON Phase One would descend upon her household in a curse that would leave her rabid and intolerable.

  “Oh. Sweet. Baby. Jesus.”

  “What? Why are we calling the Lord’s name?”

  Samara blinked down at the lit screen. How had she missed it? How had she missed that she missed it? Four. Weeks. She was four fucking weeks late and... “Oh. Sweet. Baby. Jesus.”

  “Sammie?”

  “Oh. Sweet. Baby. Jesus.”

  “Sammie!”

  “What?!”

  Nyssa squinted. “The hell is wrong with you, man?”

  She swallowed, but it didn’t matter. All the moisture that should’ve been in her mouth was gone. “I suddenly think I understand the reason I’ve been so sick.” Then she was up and running towards her bathroom, the little food she’d had touching the back of her throat for a second time.

  Samara’s eyes watered, widening to the size of saucers as she finished brushing her teeth and gargling down half a bottle of mouthwash. Four weeks late. She was four weeks late.

  “The flu...the flu and stress...this happens to a lot of women. I’ve been sick...and traveling a lot. Maybe this is my body’s way of telling me to slow down. Right?” She stared at the dark circles under her eyes, searching for an answer that wouldn’t send her spiraling into a panic attack. “Right?”

  Something soft and furry wound around her ankles. Looking down, she saw Manfred. “Manny, Mama’s not pregnant.” She picked him up. “I don’t look like I’m pregnant, do I?”

  He stared, blinking at her as if to say, “Bitches be denying...”

  Samara put him down.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” Her fingers drummed on the countertop of her bathroom sink, the sound echoing around the small, tiled space as the noise of her once-again-ringing phone and the tinkling of a Skype call reached her.