It was beautiful. Slow, and intimate, and magical.
“Oh, God,” James groaned, kissing her hotly. “I’m going to cum.”
“Please,” Toni stroked his cheek. “Cum inside me, baby.”
And he did. Toni moaned, as she felt James’ thick cock swell, and throb inside her – a short, sweet, gentle climax to a night of passion.
They lay entwined in each other for a moment or two, until Toni gasped and pushed the big man off her.
“I can’t breathe, baby.”
James chuckled, and flopped over onto his back. Chest heaving, he stared at the ceiling while he got his breath back.
For long, lingering, delicious minutes, Toni lay across him, head on his broad chest, and closed her eyes.
She listened to his thumping heart, and felt his chest lift and fall to the rhythm of his breathing.
She didn’t want to move from that spot. Not ever.
But then her eyes flickered upwards, and she caught the time on the digital alarm click by the bed.
“Fuck.” Toni hauled herself up, and confirmed the time on her Bulova watch. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Taffy’s coming with the car in thirty minutes.”
Toni snorted.
“Just enough time for a shower, and then the walk of shame.” She rolled over and kissed James wetly on the mouth. “Although I honestly don’t feel like I have anything to be ashamed about.”
Then her eyes narrowed.
“But whatever happens, we can’t let Baller find out about this.”
Chapter Thirty Four
James
While Toni took a steamy shower, James found himself a pair of jeans and a tight, black t-shirt. Disheveled, unshaven, and smelling like he’d been up all night having sex, the Scotsman still cut an imposing figure.
He popped two Alka Seltzer into a glass of water and called the lobby.
“We’d like to leave by the side door,” he explained, anticipating what kind of tip they’d expect. “Can you have somebody show us out?”
When the front desk confirmed that they’d be sending somebody up, James nodded, and hung up.
He looked up just in time to see Toni stepping from the bathroom, steam billowing around her.
She was wrapped in fluffy white towels, and without makeup her beautiful face was heartbreakingly girlish and innocent.
“You look wonderful,” James grinned.
“I look like I just spent the night fucking,” she laughed. “And now I smell like your body wash. What is that shit?” She smelt her wrist. “It’s lush.”
“Floris No.86,” James explained.
Smiling, Toni padded across the room and wrapped her arms around James’ neck. They kissed, and her lips were warm, and welcoming, and soft.
He felt himself growing hard inside his jeans.
So did Toni.
“No time for that,” she giggled. “You seen my dress?”
Toni’s $1,500 Herve Leger bandage dress was located under the bed, crumpled and sweaty. With a grimace, she wriggled into it – the sleek microfiber caressing every curve of her petite body.
Once back in her Christian Louboutin 6” nude heels, the beautiful black girl looked good enough to hit the catwalk – but at 6am on a Sunday morning, it was pretty obvious that wherever she went, she’d be going wearing last night’s outfit.
“The walk of shame,” she snorted.
“The ‘got laid’ parade,” James corrected. “Here, try this.”
From his wardrobe, he pulled a crisp, white dress shirt. Toni pulled it on over her dress, and secured it with a leather belt.
Instant chic.
“Come on,” James offered his big hand. “I better get you home.”
Chapter Thirty Five
Toni
Toni had flashbacks to starting out in her career.
Back then, it had been exciting to be whisked out of the back of a hotel – guided through the kitchen, to the bemused look of chefs and porters. It hadn’t mattered that normally she was being shown out in secret because she’d spent the night banging some married celebrity – it was still cool.
But these days? When she was the celebrity with the secret to keep? It was a little less glamorous.
The only good thing about being led out through the side entrance – like somebody’s dirty laundry – was that James was escorting her there. His big hand was curled around hers, and as they walked Toni kept glancing over at the big, handsome man striding by her side.
Finally, they were there.
“This opens up into the alleyway,” the bellboy confirmed, and James slipped him a fifty dollar bill. With a nod of thanks, the bellboy pushed open the fire escape…
Flash!
Camera bulbs popped.
Microphones were shoved in their faces. Screaming voices demanded: “Toni! Toni! What’s the story, Toni?”
“James! Is this your new girlfriend?”
“Toni! Have you broken up with Hannibal Alexander?”
There were fifty reporters out there, armed with cameras and microphones and an endless barrage of questions.
For a moment, Toni and James just stood there, stunned. Then the bellboy pulled them back inside, and slammed shut the fire door.
In the dimness of the corridor, Toni’s face went pale.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathed. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”
“What the hell was that?” James wheeled around to the bellboy, who cowered away in terror. “We were trying to leave discreetly.”
“I-I have no idea, sir,” the terrified bellboy stammered. “I-it was clear fifteen minutes ago, I swear.”
James snarled at him.
Grabbing Toni’s elbow, he pulled her down the corridor.
“C’mon, let’s get back to my room and figure out what’s going on.”
Stunned, Toni followed him.
Chapter Thirty Six
James
The story was on TMZ in less than an hour.
“Hannibal’s Sweetheart Caught Canoodling With Rival!”
Soon other websites were showing the pictures of James and Toni, framed in the doorway of the hotel side entrance, stunned by the appearance of cameras and reports.
“Hip hop star spends night with rival.”
“Bailing on Baller?”
The rest of the headlines were equally inventive.
“Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Toni was gasping, sitting on the bed rocking back and forth. “Oh, Jesus, Baller is gonna kill me.”
“Nobody’s getting killed,” James promised. He grabbed for the phone, and punched in Taffy’s number. “I’ll fix this, I swear.”
“How are you gonna fix it?” Toni looked up at him and yelled: “They know, okay? It’s on fucking TMZ!”
You couldn’t really argue with that fact.
“James, they’re gonna fucking roast me,” Toni cried. “Fuck knows what Baller will do, but Frank? And Delwood? I’ll be dead to them.” Fat tears started rolling down her cheeks. “This is gonna kill my career.”
James clamped his hand over the receiver.
“Nothing’s getting killed,” he snapped. “Not you. Not your career. Let me talk to Taffy. He can fix anything.”
But, sadly, it seemed James’ faith was misplaced that morning.
The phone stopped ringing, and Taffy picked up.
“I’m watching the news now, boyo,” the Welshman sounded almost excited. “They caught you bang to rights.” Then he sniggered. “Or banging her to rights.”
“Taffy,” James snarled, “what the fuck happened? You said you were sending the car around. You said this would be discreet.”
“Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it?” Taffy lamented. “What are you going to do? You two can’t hold up in your room all day.”
As it happened, that wasn’t an option.
There was a loud banging on the door to James’ hotel suite. Then a cry of: “Mr. MacDonald. It’s the hotel manager, sir. We
need to speak to you.”
James snapped into the phone: “Get here fast, Taffy.”
“Five minutes, boyo.”
And then the phone clicked dead.
Putting the receiver back on the cradle, James crossed the room and swung open the door. There, looking pale and sheepish, were the hotel General Manager and a couple of his staff.
“Sir?” The manager asked. “We need you to come downstairs. There’s a bit of a situation. We’ve called the police, but we thought you might be able to deal with it better than we can.”
“Situation?” James gulped. “What sort of situation?”
“There’s a man downstairs called Hannibal Alexander – and he says if he doesn’t get to see you, there’s going to be trouble.”
Chapter Thirty Seven
James
Hannibal Alexander was in a Sean John suit and a foul mood.
Surrounded by his ‘posse’, the menacing MMA fighter was prowling the lobby of the Hilton like a stray tiger, slamming his fist into his palm menacingly.
Hotel guests scurried out of his way. Onlookers were aghast. From outside the gleaming glass windows, paparazzi and reporters looked on, videotaping and snapping pictures of the scene.
It was that which welcomed James MacDonald and Toni Rome as the elevator doors opened up.
Stepping out into the lobby, a hush descended as the British fighter and the curvy hip hop honey stepped across the plush carpeting.
“There you are, you fucker!”
The sound of Hannibal’s voice reverberated around the hotel lobby. Swaggering forward, the big fighter’s nostrils flared as he snorted like an angry bull.
James stepped in front of Toni, and stood his ground.
“Good morning, Hannibal,” he said coolly.
Six feet from where he was standing, Hannibal stopped. He glowered at James MacDonald, looming like a predator. His posse fell in behind him – burly African American men with mean stares and tattoos.
“What the fuck is this?” Hannibal snapped, pointing an accusing finger at James. Then he looked at Toni, hiding behind the handsome Scot, and demanded, “Are you with him now, you fucking hoe?”
“Watch your language,” James hissed.
“My fucking language?” Hannibal took a menacing step forward – now just five feet from where James was standing. “You limey motherfucker – my language is the least of your fucking concerns.”
Raised voices barely registered with the two fighters – but shouldering their way through the crowd came two figures.
Skinny little Taffy Evans scurried over to where James was standing, and grabbed Toni’s wrist. She let him drag her away, to the comparative safety of the corner of the room.
Meanwhile, Hannibal’s manager Delwood swaggered up to where his client was standing and hissed: “What the fuck’s going on, Baller?”
Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. He pointed an accusing finger at James MacDonald.
“That limey motherfucker’s been sleeping with my girl,” he hissed. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
“Yo, here, boss,” one of Hannibal’s posse reached into his jacket and pulled out a 9mm Smith and Wesson.
There was a hushed gasp from the room. Even James backed away as he saw it.
“For Christ’s sake,” Delwood snapped, slapping the black man’s wrist. “Put that fucking thing away. Do you want us all to go to jail?”
Jail wasn’t Hannibal’s concern.
“Yo!” He snapped at the member of his posse with the gun. “I don’t need no fucking gun to kill this motherfucker.” And, with that, he peeled off the black suit jacket he was wearing, and started rolling up his sleeves. “I can bury him with my fucking fists.”
Chapter Thirty Eight
James
“Now, hold on,” James held up his hands. “Hannibal, we don’t want any trouble. The police are on their way.”
Taffy shouted out from the sidelines, “Yeah, you big black cunt! If you want to settle this with your fists, do it in the fucking octagon!”
James nodded. Turning to Hannibal, he argued: “How about that? Settle it like gentlemen?”
Hannibal took another step forward, and took a practice swing. James flinched at the sight of it.
“Oh, you’d fucking like that, you limey prick,” he sneered. “Make yourself a little money. Get your pretty face back on TV again.” He rolled his eyes. “Well, it ain’t gonna happen.”
“Baller, calm it the fuck down,” Delwood was trying to reach out to his client. “Back the fuck away. This ain’t smart, buddy.”
Hannibal snapped his head in the direction of his trainer and barked: “Fuck being smart.” He pointed an accusing finger at James. “I whipped this motherfucker yesterday, and I can do it again right here, right now.”
From the back of the room, somebody murmured: “Weren’t the fucking police meant to be here by now?”
But nobody else in the room seemed to care about the police. They were all watching as James and Hannibal squared off.
“How’s about it, limey,” Hannibal snapped. “Right here, right now.” He pointed an accusing finger at the Brit. “You fuck my girl? Well, I’m gonna fuck you up.”
And then he turned to Toni, his eyes burning with hatred.
“And you, you fucking hoe. I’ll send you back to the hood. Record deals? Fucking forget ‘em. These celebrity parties? You’re fucking finished with them.”
He took a deep, angry breath, slamming his fist into his palm.
“By the time I’m done with you, you little slut, you’ll be sucking off crack dealers to make rent.”
And that’s when James saw red.
Taking a menacing step forward, the Scotsman drew himself up to his full height – towering above the bigger, stronger black man.
“Threaten me all you want, you big, ugly cunt,” he growled, “but say one more word to Toni and I will end you.”
Hannibal grinned.
His eyes flashed.
This was what he wanted.
“Well, come on then, you limey cocksucker,” he sneered. “Let’s fucking dance.”
Chapter Thirty Nine
Toni
Toni clung to Taffy’s arm, as she watched her two lovers circling each other like angry dogs.
“Bloody hell,” the Welshman growled. “It’s really going to fucking happen!”
And it was. In front of dozens of terrified onlookers, and countless video cameras and reporters, two of the biggest names in MMA heavyweight fighting were about to have an impromptu rematch in a hotel lobby.
Toni was terrified. Not just for herself and her uncertain future, but for the two men she was about to watch lay into each other.
Baller was an asshole, but he was still her boyfriend. She liked to think that him showing up here that morning had at least a little to do with his feelings for her, rather than just correcting the trespass of his rival.
And James? Toni sighed. James was lovely. He was sweet. And he was up there defending her honor, when she wasn’t even sure she had any honor left to protect.
She’d cheated on her boyfriend, and humiliated him in front of millions. And now she was going to let the two men in her life beat each other to a bloody pulp in front of her.
Those were hardly the actions of an honorable woman.
And part of her wondered if she deserved these two men’s devotion.
But then, of course, she knew Baller wasn’t doing it for her.
James MacDonald had humiliated him. He cared more about his ego than pretty much anything else in the world – and that meant Baller had to get his own back.
It was James she felt bad for. Bad, and a little worried.
Baller had threatened to kill him. As long as the police continued to be missing-in-action, there was nothing to stop him doing just that.
This wasn’t the sanitized safety of an MMA cage match. This was real fighting. And in real fighting, people got hurt, or killed.
And sh
e couldn’t live with herself if that happened to James.
Chapter Forty
James
As the Americans were fond of saying: Shit was about to get real.
James MacDonald lifted his fists in a defensive stance, and stared across the four feet of space separating him from Hannibal Alexander.
This was it. The moment of truth.
He looked deep into the black man’s eyes, to see if he meant it or not. If this fight was really happening, or it was just bluster.
James had been on the receiving end of both over the years. Back home in Britain, he’d been cornered in pubs and clubs a number of times, and he’d always been able to tell.
There was a look a man’s eyes – the look of somebody bluffing, or somebody who would really go for it.
And there was no mistaking the look in Hannibal Alexander’s eyes.
He was here to crush James.
“Are we doing this?” Hannibal sneered, “or what?”
James stood his ground. He was in unfamiliar territory. A 6am brawl in a hotel lobby was hardly his style.
Like a computer, the Scotsman’s mind raced with all the possibilities and variables.
Firstly: This was illegal. The cops could turn up any second, and they’d be happy to break this fight apart with tasers and pepper-spray if they had to.
Secondly: There’d be no tapping out. James wasn’t sure how far Hannibal was willing to go; but if the man lived up to that mad-dog look in his eye, the Scotsman could, quite literally, be fighting for his life here.
Thirdly: The rules all changed. There were no gloves. No rules. That changed everything. A punch to the face could fracture your knuckles. A kick in the leg could break your femur. They were playing for keeps now; and the consequences could last a lifetime.
James gulped dryly, and lifted his bare fists.
“Bring it,” he nodded.
FIGHT NIGHT #1: Three Story MMA Romance Bundle Page 13