by Cara McKenna
The other man wasn’t as tall as Flynn but probably weighed a few pounds more, some of it muscle, some straight bulk. He looked about twenty-five, with bleached blond hair and dark roots and sharp, closely spaced eyes that lent him a weasely quality. They tapped gloves and backed into opposite corners. Flynn’s posture changed, shoulders hunching, feet shifting restlessly.
The ref whacked the bell with a wrench and the match was on. Flynn straightened up, dropping his guard and acting casual as the two fighters circled. The other man looked punchy and eager and took the offensive for the round, coming fast at Flynn a few times and threatening some jabs. Flynn kept himself relaxed, pulling his head back from the strikes but leaving his guard largely open. After a minute of this the crowd got impatient, as did the blond guy. The second he made a real rush, Flynn got serious. He snapped his fists up, tucked his chin low. Unlike when he’d fought the big black guy the week before, he didn’t take any hits on purpose. He dodged and blocked until the bell rang to end the round, not having thrown a single punch of his own.
Laurel met him at his corner with water.
“Thanks.” He downed half of it and handed the cup back.
“You gonna do something soon?”
“When I’m good and ready.” He offered a smug grin that heated Laurel’s insides like liquor.
The next round was much the same as the first. Flynn continued to hold back, his inactivity pissing the blond guy off as the seconds wore on—Laurel could see from the twitch of the man’s jaw that he was getting tweaked. Toward the end of the three minutes he lost his cool. He came at Flynn with his whole body, a torrent of powerful but graceless punches. Flynn blocked a couple and took a hard hook to the neck and jab to the nose, then came back with a combination that pummeled the blond guy’s chest and temple with two wet thwacks. The guy dropped to his knees for a short count, finding his feet seconds before the bell rang. Flynn knocked his gloved hands together, aiming a look at his opponent that Laurel couldn’t make out. The ref rang the bell again and both men retired grudgingly to their corners.
“’Bout time,” Laurel said as she gave him his water.
“You can’t rush a symphony like this.”
She shook her head at his grand tone, pretending to disapprove. Flynn crossed his arms on the rope and gazed down at her, so casual they might’ve been waiting on a subway platform.
You are some fucked-up kind of magical, she thought.
Flynn handed the cup back and donned his glove as the bell sounded to signal the third round. He didn’t waste the final three minutes. Laurel wondered if he had some philosophy to prove…that a good fighter only needed one round to lay another man out. Or maybe this was a big fuck-you to his opponent, letting him know he didn’t think the guy deserved a full fight’s effort. At any rate, he didn’t need the final three minutes. He needed just over two, when a terrifying right hook snapped the blond guy’s head to the side, left him staggering a few paces until he toppled, legs buckling.
The normally surly crowd offered the most enthusiastic applause Laurel had heard yet. She clapped awkwardly with the cup in one hand, eyes on the fallen man. He blinked groggily after a half a minute but didn’t make it to standing before the ref called the fight and thrust Flynn’s arm into the air. Flynn helped his opponent to his feet, rewarded with a sour look as the man yanked his arm away. They exchanged a couple words Laurel didn’t catch. Flynn ducked between the ropes and hopped heavily to the concrete floor.
“Well done,” she said, handing him the last of the water.
He raised the cup in a weary toast and drained it. They walked to the corner together and he let her blot his sweat-beaded forehead with the towel.
“Do you ever lose?” she asked.
“Not a lot, but sometimes. Few times a year, sure. I’ve been doing this since I was twelve, so I’m pretty good.” He touched his fingers to a clot of blood at one nostril, opening the flow and frowning at his red fingertips.
“Oh gross,” Laurel said, wincing. “And twelve? Really? Is that even legal? Well, I guess if karate’s legal…”
“That kid over there?” He pointed at the teenaged ref. “That used to be me. So fucking eager and hardly anybody around small enough to fight. My sister’s ex, Robbie, he managed a gym in Southie way back then. He let me hang around because he was so nuts about her, and she thought it’d keep me out of trouble.”
Laurel stared at the kid, feet at the edge of the ring, hands wrapped around the top rope, antsy as hell. “Did you ever want to fight professionally?”
“Nah. I’m too territorial to ever leave this neighborhood to go on the circuit.”
“Really?”
“I think so. Why, you plannin’ on marrying me and dragging my ass down to Providence to make babies?”
Laurel’s mouth fell open and she felt her cheeks burn. Flynn laughed at her shock and gave her a clap on the shoulder. “You’re too easy to freak out, kiddo.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are. It’s cute.” He stared into the basement’s dim chaos. “Think you’d never been flirted with before.”
“Not about marriage. Not by a man who’s actively bleeding.” She scowled at him and dabbed at his nose with the towel.
“Yeah, well, it’s cute that that scares you when all the other shit I’ve done to you doesn’t. Makes my heart all fluttery.” He smirked at her. “Mrs. Laurel Flynn. Nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that. Part of her was flattered he wasn’t afraid to tease her about something so serious, but mostly she felt insulted. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she and Flynn wouldn’t ever go beyond regular fuckbuddies, but the fact that he could snark about marriage stung… Not that she’d been bookmarking dresses online or anything. But a bottle of conditioner to keep in his shower, maybe, some tiny symbol of her significance…? Idiot.
But she shrugged off her angst, determined to enjoy herself. So what if Flynn didn’t belong only to her? She could always ask him not to mention that he had another lover if it kept hurting.
She didn’t want it to hurt though. She wanted to not give a shit, to be as well-adjusted and relaxed about their arrangement as he was.
Laurel went through all the same motions for the rest of the evening’s matches, joking with Flynn, fetching his water when he was in the ring, clapping when he inevitably won his second and third fights, inventorying his fresh injuries. The bitterness faded and she found herself excited and happy again, happy just to be here, miles outside her comfort zone but seeming to belong somehow, among all these sweaty, battered ruffians and bloodlusting voyeurs, permanence and significance be damned.
Flynn changed back into his street clothes around twelve thirty and they left, the back door closing behind them and choking off the din of other men’s violence.
They walked to Flynn’s building without speaking and he punched the floor buttons for two and five. He made his usual stop to knock on his sister’s door then returned, a hardness to his expression.
“You okay?” Laurel asked.
“Second we get in that apartment,” Flynn muttered, “it’s on.”
“What’s on?”
The growl in his voice was all the answer she needed. “You fuckin’ know.”
8
Laurel held her breath the whole way down the hall, heart hammering as the door shut and deadbolt clicked. She turned to face Flynn. He tossed his bag by the door and approached her with slow, even steps. She swallowed. His eyes looked wild in the faint light leaking in from the city.
“Michael,” she said. “Sorry. I just really need to use the bathroom. Hold that glare.”
She peed and tried to gargle away her beer breath with a mouthful of tap water, checked her makeup and stepped back out into the dangerous dark. The absence of the bathroom light left her momentarily blind and she gasped as a hand grabbed her wrist and twisted it behind her back, rough, nearly painful. Flynn had taken his shirt off—she
felt his damp skin plastered against her bare arm as he leaned down to speak just behind her ear.
“Scream and I swear I’ll kill you.”
The blood drained from Laurel’s face and fingers, her extremities going numb as her pussy clenched and flooded with heat.
He smelled dangerous, like sweat and blood and dirt, and she forgot how to breathe. She found the barest squeak of her voice as his hand tightened around her wrist.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“Don’t what?” He pushed her, walked her roughly to the bed, forcing her down onto her chest, legs hanging over the edge. He let her wrist go to reach beneath her, both hands tugging at the button of her jeans. Adrenaline shot through her veins, mixed with her excitement, made her tingle with aggression and fear. She thrashed, flailing onto her back and wedging her feet against Flynn’s stomach, trying to push him away, determined to make him work for it, wanting to feel the power and danger of his strength.
He yanked her jeans down her thighs and off her calves, hooked her around the waist as she made it to her feet and tried to bolt. His arm half-knocked her wind out and in a blink she was on her back on the bed again. Flynn’s knees pushed between hers, one hand unbuckling his belt as the other pinned her by the shoulder. His broad, black silhouette blocked out the jaundiced glow from the windows and made him seem anonymous, deepening the pulse throbbing between Laurel’s legs.
She slapped his arm with both hands, buckling it a moment with a hard hit to the inside of his elbow.
“Bitch.” He ignored her next strikes, finishing with his pants and wrestling to get her wrists in his grip. He’d gotten his hard cock out—Laurel felt it straining along the crotch of her panties as he brought his body down to hers. He made a deep, hungry animal noise that raised the hairs all down her arms. She yanked and pushed as hard as she could, barely budging him.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” He held both her wrists in one fist, pinning them above her head as he reached for the shelf. He ripped the condom open with his teeth and got it on so fast Laurel could only marvel. She forced herself back into character, bucking her body under his.
“Fucking lay still.” He reached down and pushed the crotch of her panties to one side, big fingers finding her pussy wet and ready. “Oh yeah, you’re gonna feel beautiful.”
Two fingers slid in deep, thrusting, and Laurel did what she hoped was a convincing job of feigning disgust and terror. He had her pinned so well she couldn’t move anything but her head more than an inch. She did the only thing she could—spat in his face.
Flynn froze and she was suddenly glad she couldn’t see his expression.
He held both their bodies so still his flaring breaths rang out like shouts in the dark. Anticipation held court until finally he lowered, fearfully slow, covered her mouth with his as his hand left her panties to clasp her jaw. He forced his thumb between her lips, got her teeth apart even as Laurel bit down as hard as she dared. His tongue slid into her mouth, finding hers and giving her as explicit and dirty a kiss as he could manage. He pulled away, keeping his face close, pressing his forehead to hers and sliding his thumb free.
“You don’t wanna know how rough I can play, girl.” His lips brushed hers. “Now I’m gonna let your hands go and you’re gonna be good, or else I’m gonna be real bad. You got that?”
“Don’t do this.”
Flynn ground his rock-hard cock against her pubic bone. “You didn’t give me a choice, bitch.”
He released her numb hands, leaned back and pulled her underwear aside again. She felt the head of his cock pressing hard between her legs, seeking entrance. Laurel hauled off and slapped him dead across the face, harder than she’d ever hit anyone in her entire life. The noise must have been scarier than the force, as Flynn’s head barely moved. A snort that belonged to a pissed-off bull hissed from his nose.
His whispered words were deadly calm. “You are so fucked.”
Laurel grabbed both his arms as he angled his dick and pushed inside. Fuck, he felt amazing. She stifled a moan as he forced his way into her clenched pussy.
“You’re so tight when you fight me, girl.” He took the whacks and slaps she laid on his arms, all his energy focused on the penetration. He eased in slow, halfway, then pulled back and rammed himself home.
Laurel cried out, the surprise all real.
He made a filthy, satisfied noise and thrust again. He yanked his arms out of her grip and grasped her wrists, pinning them together again above her head, one hand free to wrap around her throat.
“Tell me you love it,” he ordered.
Laurel gave a good thrash then froze as the hand on her neck tightened. Not hard enough to choke but plenty hard enough to intimidate.
“Tell me.”
She swallowed, the motion thick and labored under his palm. “I love it.”
“I thought so. Tell me how I feel, bitch.”
She whimpered, the noise utterly authentic. “Hard,” she managed to say.
“What else?”
Another thick swallow. “Big. And long.”
“Yeah.” He pumped deep, seeming to luxuriate. His hips felt powerful, thighs strong and hard, spreading her wide. He released her throat, took a wrist in each hand and held them on the mattress at either side of her butt. Laurel wanted to drown in the grunts that punctuated each rough thrust. She kept her arms tugging and her pussy clenched and kept her ecstasy to herself.
After a couple minutes’ hard fucking Flynn released her tingling hands, pulled out, lifted her legs and flipped her onto her stomach. He yanked her panties down her legs and pinned her thighs together with his clothed knees. His hands found hers again, bringing them together at the small of her back, forcing her head to one side. She was too turned on to muster much of a fight, just moaned as his dick brushed her butt, slid between her thighs and plunged back inside. His zipper scraped against her ass.
“God yeah.” He sounded close to release, the words strangled, his body losing coordination. Laurel felt drops of sweat land on her back and wished she could see that hard body working, all those glistening muscles and his angry cuts and bruises.
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna come. Fight me, bitch. Fight me.”
Laurel did her pathetic best to struggle and whatever little resistance she managed was enough. He pounded hard for a half minute and came apart, hips hammering as he groaned through his release.
She expected him to collapse but the opposite happened. He let her go and rolled her onto her back, ditched the condom and curled his body beside hers. She relaxed her head into the pillow as his hand found her pussy. He dipped two fingers inside to wet them then teased her clit, fast and frantic.
“Oh God—” His mouth cut her off, claiming hers rough and deep. She touched his face, his damp hair and skin, let her legs twitch as his hand set her on fire. When the kiss broke apart she watched his slick arm flexing to pleasure her, the contour of his side and hip and jeans-clad ass in the ambient light.
“God, don’t stop.”
He rubbed harder, bringing the pleasure to a boil.
“Use your thumb,” she stammered. “Fuck me with your fingers.”
He tucked his body closer, got two fingers inside, then three, then all four, thrusting, and finally pressed his thumb to her clit.
“Flynn. God, fuck me.”
“Come on, girl. Come on.” He circled her clit, the touch so intense she felt a wall form between her mind and reality. Pleasure jerked her deep into the climax, bubbled up from her core and spilled into her arms and legs and out of her mouth in a long, wild moan. His hand slowed as her clenches became twitches, until the last drops of orgasm were wrung from her quaking body.
Her breath rang out in the quiet room, then her voice. “Holy fuck.”
Flynn slid his fingers out, wiped them on the bedspread. His warm, slippery chest pressed against her as his arms wrapped around her waist. He rested his mouth against her collarbone and a long, satisfied sound oozed o
ut of him to heat her skin.
“Shit, you’re so hot.”
Laurel giggled, smiling up at the ceiling. “You’re real pretty yourself.”
“Let’s quit our jobs and fuck all day.”
“Works for me. Think somebody will subsidize that? Maybe we could apply for some kind of research grant.”
Flynn made a happy noise and his arms tightened. They lay quietly for ten minutes, until their collective breathing was even, sweaty bodies cooled. Flynn pulled away, got to his feet, wandered across the apartment to switch on the lights. Laurel sat up and watched him puttering, tossing clothes from his gym bag into a hamper. He disappeared into the bathroom briefly and the sound of the shower left her sad, made her wish his smell wasn’t being washed away. He emerged shortly with a towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping. She studied his body, those familiar injuries like angry, transient tattoos.
She rolled herself off the bed, went to the bathroom to tidy herself and retrieve some first-aid accessories. Flynn eyed the items as she approached and took a seat obediently on the coffee table.
“God, you’re such a mess.” She sat at the edge of the chair and soaked a wad of toilet paper with antiseptic, tilting his head up to swab his latest cuts. She smeared Bactine over the deep ones, studied his eyes under the guise of scrutinizing his injuries. He moaned as she daubed at a scrape on his throat, not a sound of pain.
He pressed his neck into her touch, spoke through a heavy sigh. “I like when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You know…” His words faded to a mumble. “Fuss over me.”
“Take care of you?”
He nodded, just the briefest dip of his chin.
Laurel wasn’t sure what to do with this information. It was tough to write things off with Flynn, as he so rarely made sentimental proclamations, and the ones he did make couldn’t be blamed on alcohol.
She finished swabbing the scrape, blotted his skin until none of the tiny lines offered any fresh blood.
“You’re a strange man, Michael Flynn.”