by Lane Hart
MACE
A Cocky Cage Fighter Novel
By Lane Hart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2016 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.
Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
Edited by Wendy Ely and Angela Snyder
Cover by vocaldesign
https://www.fiverr.com/vocaldesign
Photo ©istockphoto.com
WARNING: THIS BOOK IS INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES 18+ ONLY AND CONTAINS EXPLICIT SEX SCENES AND ADULT LANGUAGE!
This book contains references to bulimia and anorexia, which are very serious health conditions. If you or someone you care about might be suffering from an eating disorder, seek professional guidance as soon as possible by calling the National Eating Disorders Association helpline at 1 (800) 931-2237.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
For all the Wicked Readers and Book Hoes
who love my men as much, if not more, than I do.
I may write them, but you ladies bring them to life.
Chapter One
Mason Reed
My heavy eyelids have only drooped for maybe five seconds before the annoying, ear-splitting beeping startles me awake, making me feel guilty for almost drifting off to sleep. I shoot straight up out of the uncomfortable plastic chair and examine the row of machines, trying to figure out which one is the pissed off culprit this time. When none state the obvious alerts I’ve become all too familiar with (low oxygen, dropping blood pressure, or the IV bag needs to be changed) I reach over the bedrail and hit the red nurse call button just to be safe. It rings like usual, but there’s no follow-up voice asking how they can help me, or more specifically, how they can help my sister who’s been lying in a coma for three days.
Knowing the sight will be more painful than a million punches to the face, I force myself to glance down at Mandy’s frozen form to check for changes in her condition. Her face is still too pale, with the majority of it obstructed by the clear mask connected to the intubation tube. I reach for her hand that’s cool and limp with IV lines jutting out of it. Like every time, I squeeze gently on her fingers, hoping the contact will invoke some type of response. Of course it doesn’t.
Realizing the call for a nurse went unanswered, I hit the button again as the unknown beeping continues to blare. Actually, the alert seems to be getting louder. My heart races when I realize it must be the dreaded sound of Mandy flat-lining again for the fourth time. Fuck!
“Nurse!” I yell, hoping staff in the hall will hear me. For some reason, I can’t bear to let go of Mandy’s hand. With my free one, I hold down the nurse call button again, but unlike the times before when a herd of people wearing scrubs rush into the room, no one comes. “Someone please help her! Bring the defibrillators!”
Not a soul comes into the dark room, so I do the only thing I know to do, I start CPR compressions on Mandy’s chest. I can’t even give her mouth to mouth because she’s intubated!
I scream again for help, knowing it won’t do any good, but I can’t lose her. Losing mom almost killed Claire and me…there’s no way I can tell her that I let Mandy die, too. Claire’s always done everything she can for me since our mom lost the battle with cancer, and now I can’t even keep Mandy alive until Claire can see her and say goodbye one last time.
Putting my ear to her chest, I try to listen for her heartbeat as tears stream down my face and a sob wrenches from my throat.
“Mace.”
Hearing my name, I jerk my head up to see if Mandy is awake somehow. Of course, she’s not. Her eyes are still shut tight as she lies unresponsive.
“Mace.”
Wait, Mandy never called me Mace, only Mason. I look behind me toward the hallway, but no one’s there. When I look back down, Mandy is gone, too. The bed’s empty.
“Mace, wake up!”
I gasp, and my entire body levitates off the bed when I startle awake.
Fuck.
I blink my eyes open and stare unmoving at one of the walls in my bedroom, lit only by the rising sun, waiting for my galloping heart rate to slow down to a light trot. Just a dream, I tell myself. No, not just a dream. It’s June, and Mandy has been gone for nine months…only unlike my dream, I was in the room when the team of doctors and nurses tried everything they could to save her. Scrubbing a palm over my face, reality seeps into my tired, hazy mind.
“Beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…”
What is with that annoying fucking sound? I thought it was just in my nightmare, but now that I’m awake, it’s still hammering into my skull like a pickax.
"Mace, please shut your fucking phone up," Monica grumbles groggily from behind me as she shakes my bare shoulder, before snuggling up closer to the warmth of my back.
My phone is making that God-awful noise? What. The. Hell?
"Hey, hon, can you reach my phone?" I ask, rubbing a palm down Erica's back until I reach her ass. Since her leg is thrown over mine, I squeeze a handful of her plump flesh and grind her against my morning wood. I'm not ready to move or leave the warmth of this fucktastic sandwich. Erica's brown curls are covering most of her face when she puffs out a breath of annoyance before reaching behind her to grab my phone from where it’s charging on the nightstand.
"Gahh. Just make it stop," she says as she offers the screeching device to me and cuddles back up to my chest. Oh, and lazily licks circles around one of my nipples. "Then get your hard cock off my stomach and inside me."
"You know what to do. Put a rubber on me and mount up," I tell her absently as I roll to my back and blink at the screen in my hands. The words, "Airport 9:30 don't be late" stare back at me. Airport? Oh shit. My phone says it's already 9:33. Not that I’ve ever used the feature before, but why in the world did I set a reminder for the exact time I'm supposed to be somewhere?
By this point, a naked Erica is straddling my hips and smoothing the condom down my hard shaft. My hands instantly shoot out and are on her small but perky tits a second later. Planes are always late, right? When my cock disappears into her snu
g heat, I decide I don't really give a fuck. I'll drive fast. I'll fuck faster. This is what I need to erase the nightmare and the painful memories so they won’t haunt me all damn day.
Moving lower, my big mitts almost touch each other as I grip Erica’s slender waist. I push her body down and thrust my hips up, bouncing her on my cock. The effect on her tits is phenomenal, but it’s not enough.
“Enough with the lazy fuck,” I warn her when she keeps rocking slowly back and forth on me. “Faster or I’ll have to do it myself. Is that what you want?”
“God yes,” she moans, and closes her dark chocolate eyes.
"Mmm," Monica mutters from beside us as she slowly stirs awake. When I glance over, I see that she’s spread her legs and is reaching down to play with herself. Now I have to take care of all three of us at the same time. Easy.
As a two-hundred-pound MMA fighter, it takes no effort to lift Erica, who is petite and a hundred pounds lighter than me, off my cock to get out from under her. Now behind her, my hand on the back of her hair guides her head down between Monica’s legs, where she eagerly starts licking the other woman’s pussy. Monica screams and her back arches off the mattress, well on her way to an orgasm before I even get my cock lined up and rammed into Erica from behind.
“Oh! Oh! Ohhh!” Erica moans with each of my brutal, punishing thrusts, distracted from her job. I remind her by pressing her face back into the pussy I know she likes to eat probably more than she loves to suck my cock.
“Yes! Fuck yes!” Monica moans as she squeezes her own heavy breasts and convulses underneath Erica and me.
Knowing she’s gotten off, I pick up the pace, fucking Erica so hard I’m almost afraid my cock might drill right through her small body. She cries out louder and louder, spurring me on until her pussy squeezes around my shaft, holding me hostage deep inside of her. I tell my cock he's good to go, pumping my hips one more time before I finally explode.
"Fuck," I groan as the last pleasurable shudder leaves my body. Now that is how I like to start the day. "God that was good," I tell the women. "But I gotta go. I'm late and my new brother-in-law is probably gonna kill me."
I still don't understand why I have to pick up Linc’s sister from the airport and chauffer her ass to the beach where he and my sister, Claire, are getting ready for their wedding. When I asked him why she couldn't drive herself, Linc said she had let her driver's license expire while living in New York and hasn't had a chance to renew it. My response was So fucking what? It's not like she's gonna get pulled over driving the five hours to the coast, but whatever. I'll do what he asked because Linc's a nice guy and makes my sister happy. If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be fighting underground for a few bucks instead of training at Havoc for an upcoming IFC fight worth fifty fucking grand if I win and twenty grand if I lose.
"Aw," Monica whines. "Take us with you to the beach."
Right. I'm sure my sister would love having me bunk with these two for a week in Linc’s beach house that we're sharing with his family and the entire wedding party.
"Sorry, ladies, but my sister is gonna keep me busy doing all sorts of shit to get ready for the wedding. Starting with getting my ass to the airport."
I reluctantly lift myself off Erica to head for the bathroom. After taking the quickest shower of my life, I brush my teeth and put on jeans and a wife-beater. Then I'm ready to go.
"Lock up before you leave?" I ask the girls who are going at it in my bed, not missing me in the least. I waste several more minutes watching them finger fuck each other before I finally force my feet to get a move on.
Picking up the duffle bag I packed last night on the way out the door, I climb in my 'stang and hit the road. Andddd traffic is bumper to fucking bumper on the highway. On a Saturday? Just my luck; a traffic jam when I’m already running late. Isn’t it ironic?
I belt out Alanis Morissette classics to pass the time as I move an inch every five minutes. With the top down on a beautiful June day is when I miss the familiar rush of nicotine and the weight of the stick between my two fingers. Angry and stupid after losing her to lung cancer, I picked up my mom’s old pack of cigarettes when I was fourteen and smoked until a few months ago when Linc insisted that I stop if I wanted to train with him. Of course he’s right, but that doesn’t mean it was any easier to give up the nasty habit.
Finally, I make it to the airport exit and get parked. While I practically jog inside the main terminal, I scroll through my old texts from Linc to find the flight number, which, looking up at the big sign, arrived…fifteen fucking minutes early. I'm almost two hours late at this point, frantically trying to figure out how to find this girl. I stop and glance in every restaurant in the food court to look for a female version of Linc. My stomach growls at the mingling of delicious smells, warning me my insides are gonna start eating themselves if I don't put something in it soon. First things first.
The chorus of "Magic Stick” by 50 Cents and Lil’ Kim blares out of my phone that I’m still palming. I already know who it is before I look down at the screen.
Linc.
"Thank you for calling Guber Transportation," I answer. “None of our drivers are currently avail –”
"Mace! Where the fuck are you?" I cringe at the normally laid-back dude’s pissed off tone. He’s supposed to be getting ready to marry my sister and live happily-ever-after and all that shit, and here I am, screwing up his good time.
"I'm at the airport. Where's your sister? What’s her name again? Hanna?"
"Hailey! And she’s been waitin’ on your late ass for hours," he barks. “Where the hell have ya been?”
"I would be less late if I knew how the fuck to find her," I tell him, dodging his question. "I don’t even know what she looks like."
"She's in the General Aviation Terminal, and I told you, spottin’ her will be easy. She's a six foot tall, blonde model. How many women have you ever seen that fit that description?"
"Ah, well, can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting any other WASP Amazons before," I tease.
"Don't you dare say that shit to Hailey," Linc uncharacteristically snaps at me. "She has this thing about her size...just don't."
"Fine, I'll refrain from making Amazon jokes," I mutter as I keep walking through the crowd eyeing everyone I pass. Nothing but a bunch of dark-haired midgets. "Still coming up empty on tall blondes. Maybe she's sitting down."
"Fuck,” he grumbles. “Look, I'm gonna text you her number, and you two can figure this shit out."
"Awesome. Go…be merry with my sister and make her happy while I find yours."
"Hurry your ass up," he says before hanging up on me.
As soon as my phone dings with the number, I try calling her. Off to my right I hear a peppy ringtone counter ringing to the one on my ear. I instantly spin around to face that direction, searching her out in the little coffee shop. That's when I finally spot her.
God. Damn.
First fucking class.
Champagne and luxury.
She looks as out of place as Glinda the Good Witch in Munchkin Land.
Over the noise of the bustling airport, I mentally hear Frankie Valli’s smooth voice aptly crooning the lyrics to “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.”
The gorgeous, and I mean gor-geous, blonde with a sleek ponytail is holding her phone to her ear and leaning a sexy hip against a coffee condiment counter. She looks like she's posing for a naughty photo shoot. Her navy blue, spaghetti strap dress pushes up her huge, full, natural tits and then flows loosely until it ends halfway between her thighs and knees. The fabric is billowing out in such a fucking cock teasing way. I just know she would be flashing her panties with even the slightest of breezes. It makes me want to huff, puff, and blow all over that brick house. And those legs? They're so damn long I could wrap my own around one and slide down it like a motherfucking fire pole. Or a stripper pole. Or any kind of pole. I just want to hump her like a damn dog.
"Hello? Who is this?” The goddess’s melodic voice
is the perfect mixture of husky sex phone operator and sweet southern belle, slowly stretching out all of her vowel sounds.
Realizing there hasn’t been ringing on the phone at my ear for several seconds, it's very possible that she caught me singing along with Frankie while I strained my eyes, hoping to develop x-ray vision. I need to know what kind of panties she’s got on underneath that tiny ass dress. Thong? Bikini? Lace? None? Oh fuck, the mystery of it all might just blow my goddamn mind.
I watch as a crease forms between her eyebrows that are a shade or two darker than her hair, making her face seem even more strikingly beautiful. Frowning harder, she says, “Hello? Is anyone there?" In her southern drawl, I imagine the question would be closed captioned to something along the lines of, “’Ello? Is Annie Juan thare?” Yeah, I know thare is not a word, but that’s how it comes out of her mouth, dripping slow and sweet like honey. I’m used to Linc’s country twang, even though at first I thought he was an unintelligent hick. Of course I now know he’s definitely not. But her accent on the other hand? Well, damn, if it’s not cute as a button, as they would say around here. Which really makes no fucking sense because there’s nothing cute about buttons, but I digress.
"Hey, um, this is Mason, your ride," I finally respond, and then wince when the words come out making me sound like an overexcited, fourteen-year-old boy, which I must say, nicely compliments my public boner.
Her sigh is so heavy, I can practically feel the warmth of her breath whooshing against my ear before she says, "You're late."
There's something about the weight in those two words and how her golden shoulders slump that have me feeling shittier than maybe ever before for being slack. Not just slack, I was fucking selfish, making this incredibly classy and gorgeous woman wait for me in a shitty airport coffee shop while I was dicking around. The southern beauty doesn't even sound pissed. She sounds...disappointed in me. Which is so much worse. And I know right then and there that my being late has actually hurt her feelings. In a rare moment of understanding how the crazy female brain works because I have—had— two older sisters, I even realize exactly why she's upset - I didn't think she was important enough to be on time for.