And that’s what draws people to him, including me.
He may seem like a crazy bad boy but he speaks the truth and it resonates loud and clear.
And the minute I step outside the Boston Globe offices at the end of the day something else resonates loud and clear.
The sound of a matte black Ducati superbike that sits across the four lanes of one-way traffic on State Street, where our offices are located in the financial district of Boston, just revved its engine.
And even though the helmet of the driver has a tinted visor, I can easily tell that the driver’s head is squared up right on me.
I don’t have to turn around to make sure he’s not looking at someone behind me, especially after the four fingers of his left hand come off the clutch as he motions towards me in a come hither motion.
I look to my right and see there’s a gap in traffic and I take it, moving quickly across the street glad I wore a pair of flats today.
But as I approach him his right hand comes up from beside the bike and I quickly see it’s holding a futuristic matte black helmet that perfectly matches the sleek, powerful design of the machine that sits underneath him.
And as soon as I have my helmet on and his hand reaches out to me, it will be underneath me too.
But the moment my hand touches his I freeze up, and so does he.
But there’s nothing cold about his touch.
That visor may be darker than night, but I know his eyes are locked on mine from underneath. A moment passes between us and suddenly I feel our hands shoot skyward and my body spin around one revolution right into him as he pulls me in close as a driver in our lane lays on the horn.
“Get out of the road lady!” the man shouts, but his helmet never turns.
Our helmets are practically touching and if we didn’t have helmets on right now I’m not sure if there would be any space between our faces…or our lips.
Without removing his hand from mine he guides me onto the back of the bike, helping me on as I get in position and put my feet on the pegs.
He brings our hands around the front and places them in the middle of his chest and even with the back of my hand I can feel the power of his pectoral muscles.
He rotates my hand around and places my fingers flat on his body.
My heart was already beating out of my chest just from the sight of him.
My panties were wet when he saved me from that car.
And now that I have my hands on him for the first time in my life I know if I’m not careful I will climax right here and now.
And that slight purr of the bike in-between my legs providing the most pleasurable sensation directly to my pussy isn’t helping either.
Once I get my hands wrapped around him as best as I can, and he pats my hands to make sure my grip is tight, I feel the bike slowly glide forward and then we are moving.
I’d never trusted anyone enough to get on the back of a motorcycle with them, but when it comes to Gavin I’d go to the moon if he asked to me…and I know he’d be there to hold my hand.
But I’m the one who’s got a hold of him right now and my hands “accidentally” slide down and up just a few inches as we head southeast.
Less than a minute later we’re on the Summer Street Bridge crossing the Fort Point Channel, just next to the Congress Street Bridge which is very near the approximate area where the Boston Tea Party took place.
And I know the last place this heavily muscled MMA fighter from Southie plans to take me is to a tea party of any kind.
But my mind starts racing trying to imagine why he picked me up and where he wants to go.
Only five minutes later I have my answer…Castle Island.
He switches off the engine which is my cue to get off I assume, but I can’t for the life of me remove my hands from him.
I feel his body lean back as his feet find the ground and his hands find my hamstrings and I wonder what in the heck is about to happen.
I immediately get my answer when I feel the bike tip sideways, finding the kickstand as he lifts both our far legs up and over the bike as he pivots he walks away from it with me on his back as he carries me away in a piggy back ride.
Every journalism major knows that the jobs at newspapers are extremely competitive and if you’re lucky enough to land one you better be prepared to work eighty hour weeks at least your first few years. That means not a lot of time to go to the gym, and often you find yourself rushing to eat something which results in choices that are far from healthy.
So I’m not exactly in the best shape of my life, and I wouldn’t say I’m exactly on the lighter end of the scale right now, but he just did that graceful maneuver over the top of a few hundred pound motorcycle in a way that seemed so effortless it was as if I was an empty backpack, and not a woman holding onto his back from behind.
As always just being in his presence makes me feel so light and feminine. It’s a feeling that shoots right to my core and requires no words on his part.
A few minutes later he’s sitting us down on the sand at Pleasure Bay’s beach, and I sure am hoping that it’s going to live up to its reputation real quick.
And when he takes off his helmet, and I take off mine, the intensity with which he looks at me tells me it just might be a real possibility.
“It’s been four years, four months, and four days,” he says.
No math is required for me to know he’s talking about my high school graduation party, but I didn’t realize it was a triple four situation.
“Four years, four months, and four days too long,” I say.
“One second was too long. Four years, four months, and four days was like torture,” he says.
I say nothing, just continuing to take in his intensity and his words, which cause my hands to start shaking.
Without moving his eyes from mine I feel his hand come down on top of mine as he takes it in his and brings it towards his chest while his empty hand takes my other hand.
But he doesn’t stop at his chest. My hand rises up to just in front of his mouth and he rolls my hand over allowing me to feel his breath on my wrist, just before he leans in and kisses it gently, his eyes still locked on mine.
I’m a journalist by profession, and when I’m not writing I’m reading.
My favorites are Dennis Lehane and Tess Gerritsen, as witnessed by my coffee table at home…but I read everything, including cheesy romance novels.
At least I thought my guilty little pleasures were cheesy until right…freaking…now.
Because I swear I feel a transfer of energy from his lips to my wrist that shoots through my entire body before it all seems to speed through my arteries and veins and up throughout my central nervous system to my spine and across the top of my head, which causes my hair to rise, until it all converges on my heart and I feel like I’ve been shocked by one of those automated external defibrillators.
And not just my heart has been shocked, but my entire being.
My mind feels like it’s on repeat. I’ve never felt so alive as when he saved me from that car. Then I never felt as alive as when I was on the back of his bike, the vibration below me and his body in my hands.
But that soft, simple kiss on my wrist while his eyes never wavered from mine takes me to the next level and I feel my inner thighs starting to quake, knowing my panties are already well-beyond completely soaked through, and I quickly reach across with my other hand and pinch the flap of skin between my thumb and forefinger, trying to inflict just a little bit of pain in my body to try and focus my mind somewhere else than on the fact that I’m so close to climaxing right here and now…fully clothed.
That’s the kind of energy and intensity he has. That’s how he gets inside these fighter’s minds and wins before they ever step foot in the ring.
And that’s how he’s already inside my head, possessing my mind and thoughts and all he’s said are a bunch of numbers. I practically orgasmed at just the sound of his gravelly voice reciting numbers a
nd his touch.
But they weren’t just any numbers. They were our numbers.
And it wasn’t just anyone’s touch. It was his touch and he does it like no other.
“It was like torture for me too,” I say.
“It’s time to end this agony. I’m here to take what’s mine, and for you to do the same,” he says as he leans in closer, the tips of his fingers finding my cheek.
“From this point forward you are mine and only mine.” He pauses as he gazes at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. “Forever,” he says as he closes that final gap, my upper body turning to square up to his.
I feel his breath on my mouth as my lips part ever so slightly. The tingle in my cheek from his touch. The smell of the ocean breeze drowned out by his own masculine scent.
And then I feel my head lean forward just so slightly as I can’t take it any longer and apparently neither can he as his head does the same and our lips meet for the first time and I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.
I feel weightless, like a bottle at sea with a note in it.
Well that theoretical bottle has washed ashore and he’s found it, read the note, and taken action.
His kiss conveys his message crystal clear but he reiterates it with words to hammer the point home.
“You. Are. Mine,” he says as his lips leave mine ever so slightly but our hunger for each other quickly brings our lips back together, but this time our kiss isn’t the sweet thing that makes Hollywood movie endings, it’s the feral, passionate kind, that plays on the high number TV channels after midnight after the kids have gone to bed after a long day of playing and the adults take over with another kind of playing of their own.
And the way he treats me makes me feel like even more of an adult. His seriousness and his commitment to forever.
And more than anything what I want now is for him to make me a woman as our faces intertwine as his hand runs through my hair and down the side of my neck as my own hands find his chest and then his abdominals as I feel the ridges before taking his jawline in a possessive grasp as he does the same.
Because we are exactly that. Two of the same. Two people from the mean streets of Southie, where people say what they mean and mean what they say.
And when he says forever I know he means forever.
CHAPTER 5
Gracie
The next evening
Last night at Castle Island was intense and everything I’d ever wanted…almost.
The area closed at seven o’clock so we got out of there a little before, not wanting to be recognized by anyone, especially security guards.
People in law enforcement, and many security guards are ex-law enforcement or have a strong interest in it, are some of Gavin’s biggest fans.
We didn’t need word getting out that he was spotted with the mysterious girl, or spotted in public at all.
Which is why he told me to meet him today at this secluded restaurant run by an old couple that we’ve known for years. All they serve is Irish stew and the sound of it had me thinking about it all afternoon. It’s all I’ve wanted for awhile and much heartier than the things I’ve been eating lately.
I waited for my boss to leave at eight o’clock and then took an Uber over to within a couple of blocks to the restaurant, walking the last minute to the back entrance where Gavin was waiting as he said he’d be.
It feels pretty exciting sneaking around like this. Not going directly to the restaurant so there’s no permanent record on Uber if it ever comes to it. And Gavin couldn’t risk coming and picking me up as by the time we left Castle Island social media was already trending with questions as to whether or not the matte black motorcycle meant Gavin was back in town.
And of course the bigger question was whether or not the blond hair flowing from underneath the helmet on the woman wrapped around him on the bike from behind was the same woman from the press conference.
#Gavin’sGirl? was easily the most popular trending hashtag on social media. It actually worked a bit in our favor as half the girls my age in Boston were posting shots of themselves, with their faces hidden or obstructed, and then tagging themselves with the hashtag.
It was perfect actually. Everyone was attempting to be me, or at least give that impression to get likes, and it meant that the search for Gavin’s girl was literally like finding a needle in a haystack at this point.
We sneak into the restaurant and sit at the table furthest at the back. The owners have known us since we were kids and without our asking they even dim the lights in all of the restaurant even though I notice no one else is inside.
“No one’s here,” I say to Gavin.
“Nor will there be. I reserved the place for tonight so we can just relax and enjoy ourselves.”
“The entire place?”
“The whole thing, just for us, baby.” He raises his glass of whiskey to my glass of wine and we toast. “To us,” he says.
“To us,” I say. After taking a sip I ask, “Is it okay to be drinking this close to the fight? I don’t want to be a bad influence.”
“Listen to me,” he says leaning in closer to me and putting his hand underneath my jaw, cupping it gently and making me feel things I shouldn’t be feeling in public, although we’re not exactly in public right now. “Your the best thing that’s ever happened to me. There’s not a lick of bad about you. And as a matter of fact,” he says as he leans in and licks my cheek.
“Hey!” I giggle and he laughs as well.
“Just like I though. You’re too sweet,” he says and I blush at his words.
“Thank you,” I say.
He just leans in and kisses me for the first time tonight. I actually like how he doesn’t reply to my words of thanks. He’s a true man and he doesn’t need to be thanked for treating a lady how she wants to be treated. He’s definitely a huge breath of fresh air from the boys who were in my classes up until this past spring at Boston University.
Sure, many were great and very nice, but they were just boys. They were still figuring out who they are. They didn’t have that way about them, or that kind of self-assuredness and self-confidence, that a real man has. It’s becoming more and more rare these days. But what isn’t rare is the heaps of praise they give Gavin when they talk about how he made it out of Boston to become the most famous and most successful athlete of this generation.
Most of the kids at college were from the wealthier parts of Boston, and society in general. They didn’t know me nor my past, and I didn’t volunteer our past, not that there really was much of one at that point.
I’d just listen quietly as they lauded him while we worked in group projects. Sometimes I’d feign ignorance or just suggest we stay focused, because any time people around me wanted to talk about Gavin my mind would immediately wander to the things I wanted him to do to me, and the things I wanted to do to him, and it would take hours to get my mind back on track, in the cases I was able to refocus at all.
But now here we are. He’s sitting right next to me making me feel like the luckiest girl in the world and then like a true gentleman he directs the conversation in a way most other men couldn’t or wouldn’t.
“What goals and aspirations do you have?” he asks.
Here he is a well-traveled man with many stories I’m sure, and he’s asking some girl fresh out of college what she wants to do. I’m sure my life experiences so far and my goals pale in comparison to his, but I appreciate his gesture and prepare to let him into my heart.
“Besides being yours?” I say.
“That’s no longer a goal. That’s a reality and you know that,” he says taking my hand in his as the single candle flickers at our table.
“It probably sounds crazy, but as someone who put a lot of effort into getting a journalism degree and who is working a lot of hours now…I’d like to win the Pulitzer.”
“For excellence in journalism,” he says.
“Yes. Exactly that.”
&n
bsp; “The investigative journalism category I’d assume?”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Because I know you, and I know of you through a few stories from your brother. You’re both introverted and inquisitive. You like to get to the bottom of things and to find the truth no matter how deep you have to dig and how long it takes. And even though you’re introverted when you start digging and that need for the answer consumes you you’re able to, let’s say, become an extrovert in order to get the job done.”
Possessive Boston Irish American MMA Fighter: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 77) Page 3