Soldier

by Tarin Lex

  Soldier

  “Fit to Love”

  Book 2

  By Tarin Lex

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2020 by Tarin Lex.

  No part of this work may be transmitted or reproduced by any means without the express written permission of the author/publisher, except for brief excerpts in the form of a book review.

  Published by Tarin Lex.

  “Soldier” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and events are products of the author’s imaginations, or used in a fictitious manner. Any similarities to real-life persons or situations are entirely coincidental.

  Cover by DesignRans.

  Soldier

  An Alpha MMA Fighter & Curvy Older Woman Age-Gap Instalove

  The one with the southpaw.

  Soldier is a sweet & steamy romance. NO cliffhangers. NO cheating. Guaranteed HEA. :) This is a standalone short story part of the Fit to Love MMA fighter romance series.

  Tarin Lex writes short, sexy, romantic stories. She lives in the Big City but she’s a country girl at heart. Tarin’s a sucker for the misunderstood Bad Boy—preferably of the hardworking, tattooed, blue-collar variety—and the sweet, big beautiful women who tame them!

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Epilogue

  It’s not too late. It’s never too late.

  -Three Days Grace

  One

  Ava

  Writing is everything to me, pretty much my entire existence. I should let in more balance, as my friend Sofi says, and I earnestly try to. I go out sometimes. More often than not I’m just trying to get back home and into my PJs and fire up my laptop again.

  We’re out now, at an auction benefiting literacy programs I donate to when I can. The event complements both our worlds—Sofi can get out with me and be all gregarious, and I can be part of something I truly care about.

  So far Sofi’s placed the highest bid on a one-hour massage and a first-edition of The Great Gatsby, which I suspect she’s saving for me as a birthday present. We’re supposed to be ignoring the Big 4-0 but the gesture is sweet.

  “You realize you haven’t bid once?” she asks me.

  “Let’s just see what else. I haven’t liked anything yet.”

  “The Great Gatsby?”

  “You beat me to it.”

  “Admit it, you’re cheap.”

  “I am so not cheap!”

  “Then I guess your plan was to bid on that?” She indicates the tall, blond, muscular hunk making his way to center stage.

  “Who is that?” I’m close to checking myself for drool, he’s that handsome.

  “A big-ticket item…” Sofi deadpans. She looks at me sidelong. “…the last of them.” She nudges me. “Ava, now’s your chance. You should totally go for it!”

  “What?”

  The auctioneer taps the mic. “And last but not least…this one for all you single ladies. Or married ones, I won’t tell,” he jokes, I hope. “Enjoy a romantic evening with mixed martial artist, former welterweight wrestling champion, Sam ‘Soldier’ Valentine!”

  The auctioneer pauses, letting the collective feminine sigh overtake the room.

  “Just look at that smile.” The auctioneer turns to the guy onstage and Sam “Soldier” blushes, endearing me to him even more. “My sources tell me he’s smart, he’s sweet, and he’s not afraid to get…sweaty.”

  The fighter smiles good-naturedly, even as he drags his hand down his face, clearly embarrassed. His hair the color of wheat falls to his brow and he mops it back. It looks so soft…

  I’m almost equally embarrassed for him. Would this still be sexist if he wasn’t so sexy?

  “Maybe I’ll just give a cash donation,” I whisper to Sofi.

  “Oh, Ava. Don’t make him feel bad. Look, he’s hardcore checking you out.”

  “He is not checking me out.” My cheeks warm when I look again and see that he…is. Why is he staring at me? Maybe he knows how motivated I am to spend money tonight. Maybe I’ve got food in my hair? Those eyes though…so much blue.

  “Bidding starts at fifty dollars!” the auctioneer calls.

  I glance around, waiting for anyone else to pipe up first. Hm, that’s odd. Fifty dollars to go out with him? He’s practically giving himself away.

  I put on my stoic face and raise my paddle for the first time tonight. For literacy.

  “Fifty dollars! Do I hear one hundred dollars?”

  Evidently everyone’s been cleaned-out by this point, ’cept for me. The cash I intended to donate is burning a hole in my purse.

  “One hundred dollars!” The auctioneer points and I follow his finger with my gaze. The second bidder is gorgeous, like an actress, or a dancer. Thin yet shapely, with delicate features and long dark brown hair.

  Sorry in advance, Soldier. I raise my paddle again, fueled by sudden competitive energy. Sofi looks at me wide-eyed, impressed. I take a big, brave leap. “Two hundred dollars!”

  Dancer-girl shoots me a nasty glare. “Two hundred and fifty dollars!”

  I heave a sigh.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Sofi says in a low voice, poking me, “just donate cash.”

  “I agree.”

  “How much was that going to be?”

  “I don’t know, like three hundred dollars?”

  She grabs my wrist and my paddle goes skyward again.

  “Three hundred!” confirms the auctioneer.

  “Sofi, what the hell.”

  “Do I have three hundred fifty? Three hundred and fifty dollars for a lovely date with the world’s number-five-ranked…”

  “Oh my god, Sof, she stopped bidding.”

  “…three hundred dollars going once…”

  My legs shake, my nerves on fire. That man up there is sexy as sin, but he’s young, and he’s fit. And I’m neither.

  “I plan on kicking your butt when this is over,” I whisper to Sofi.

  “…going twice…”

  “If you do, m’love,” she whispers back, “it’ll be worth it just to know you got out of the house for once.”

  “Hey. I’m out right now.” And you see what happens?

  “Sold!”

  “Seriously Sof, you’re dead meat.”

  “Oh, sure. Maybe you can ask your hot date for tips on how to ‘kick my ass’,” she snorts. She thinks I’m joking.

  The fighter smiles warmly, as if he’s not the least disappointed he didn’t get claimed by skinny-tits. My heart can’t decide if it wants to sink or soar, stuck in an awkward wobbly limbo. My only thoughts are anxious thoughts.

  This is so stupid. I should be psyched. It’ll be fun…

  Mr. Valentine comes over to us for the briefest of moments to trade numbers and introduce himself.

  “I hope you like chocolate,” Sam says, his voice smooth and dark and velvet, the vocal manifestation of petite sirah. Damn him. Damn those blue eyes, like oceans at dawn. I could leap and go swimming in them.

  I smile back. “I’m pretty sure people who don’t like chocolate are psychopaths.” Good one, Ava. Real smooth.

  To my delight, he actually laughs at that. “You might be right. So, I’ve got us reservations for a cooking class. You ever had homemade chocolate bouchons?”

  I have no idea what that is and I’m already lusting for one. “I have not. Sounds amazing!”

  Was that too giddy? This man, I swear. He’s good-looking, with a voice I can feel between my thighs—and he knows how to plan a cool date? No wonder…

  I realize I’ve been staring too long. “You’re not…disappointed?” I ask.

  “Are you kidding?” All of a sudden he leans in to kiss my cheek. “I c
an’t wait,” he whispers in a sultry voice only I can hear.

  Me neither. I just grin, lost for words. Nerves give way to excitement the moment he starts walking away. Attractive face, amazing butt. Any woman would be thrilled to date him. But add chocolate to that equation?

  It’s like he knows me.

  “Tell me the truth,” Sofi chimes, “is it the guy, or the desserts that have you all strung up right now?”

  “I’m strung up?”

  “Girl, yes. You’re sending lusty vibes all over the place.”

  “Well. Chocolate bonbons do sound yummy.”

  “Chocolate bouchons.”

  “Whatever.”

  And Sam “Soldier” Valentine looks really yummy too…

  Two

  Soldier

  I noticed Ava before she and Anne Hathaway’s doppelganger started their little war over me. Sure, the brunette was cute, but I prefer women with meat on their bones, something I can hold onto without restraint. Ava’s beyond stunning with her honey-blonde hair and soft, meandering curves I’d like to…

  Down, Lieutenant.

  Drake was supposed to be the big ticket, not me. As a fellow remaining bachelor in our MMA training camp, I took Drake’s spot when news broke he was being suspended from Fit to Fight for engaging in too many non-sanctioned fights. It’s a crock—our whole camp knows he doesn’t go looking for those streetfights. It’s poor timing and worse luck, and I don’t mean for Drake. Just big dudes with bigger mouths who tend to underestimate him.

  I wanted to plan something creative and hands on, and that’s when my buddy Killian brought up chocolate-making. Apparently he and his recently on-again girlfriend Kate loved it. Didn’t know when I signed up that my date would knock me breathless at her front door, and senseless in my Jeep. As we navigate smalltalk and pull up to the confectionary, I can’t stop thinking I’d like to get my hands on her, too.

  “What do you do, Ava?” I pull at a new thread of conversation. We’re here early, we’ve got some time.

  “What do I… oh, you mean for work?”

  “For anything.”

  “I’m a writer,” she says nervously. “What about you… I mean, never mind. Obviously I know what you do for a living.”

  I chuckle at that. It’s nice to think I’m having an effect on her too. “And what do you write?”

  Ava blushes. Fuckin’ adorable. “Romance novels.”

  That’s different. Not that it’s a weird job, I’ve just never met a writer who wasn’t a nosy journalist. “Wow, fascinating.”

  “It’s…a little embarrassing.”

  “But you love it.”

  “How d’you know?” She tips her head at me in question.

  I proffer a grin. “Do you know you have a dimple on your left cheek? It’s very subtle.”

  “I do?” She touches her face. “Are you sure? No one’s ever said that. I haven’t seen—”

  “Right, here.” I swipe a blonde hair that’s come loose from her ponytail, skimming her cheek with my thumb as I do. “It tells me when you really love something.”

  “My job?”

  “Is that what writing is to you?”

  “Well, no.” She touches the spot on her face where my fingers just were. “It’s everything, my passion.”

  The chef props open the door and people start filing through it in pairs. Friends and other couples. “Shall we?”

  “Yes.” Ava smiles. I round the Jeep to open her door for her.

  Ava’s dressed for comfort tonight. Smart girl. She’s wearing a little makeup, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, two gold hoop earrings big enough to put my dick through. Christ, even dressed down, Ava’s a knockout. I’ll be lucky to get through the class without thinking of tasting her instead.

  Already been thinkin’ it.

  It smells great inside the confectionary. Not a surprise. We don our aprons, I tie Ava’s behind her back and she ties mine. We find our reserved station. The pastry chef introduces himself, a foreign-sounding name I’ll never be able to reproduce, and then devolves into a long history of the art of chocolate-making, specifically the bouchons we’ll be attempting today.

  “Y’know,” I slide my arm around her waist, just for a second to quietly say, “writing romance isn’t that different from what I do.”

  “Right,” she quips, almost laughing. “Because you fight men, and I fight the voices in my head?”

  “You hear voices in your head?”

  “Nooo.” She looks askance, hiding a smile behind her hand.

  I chuckle at that. “I was going to say, both require practice, quick thinking and intuition. I can’t let my opponent guess what I’m about to do next.”

  “And I can’t let the reader guess.”

  “See?” I grin. “We’re almost the same.”

  Ava looks at me, a thoughtful expression on that beautiful face. “So, you’re creative?” she questions.

  “I try to be.”

  “Hmm,” she hums a little sound of interest.

  “I’ve never made bouchons before, so don’t judge me based on this.”

  “I promise, I won’t.”

  The chef slides us a look I’d swear I could feel if I hadn’t seen it. A look that says, Zip it you two. We do. Almost.

  “I can’t believe you got us in trouble,” I quietly joke when he turns his back.

  “Shh,” Ava whistles through her teeth, giggling softly. What I wouldn’t do to hear more breathy sounds coming from her, quiet purrs of delight that break her voice into sultry pieces like that.

  “Hey aren’t you that guy from Fit to Fight?” a guy at the station next to us says. “Something…‘Soldier’ Valentine.”

  “Sam. Yeah.” I tip my head in acknowledgment and he elbows his buddy next to him.

  “Check it out. Soldier Valentine over there, making chocolate bouchons with us.”

  “Cool bro,” the other guy says. “Yeah, you’re that southpaw.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Gentlemen,” the chef grits. He sears us with his eyes again. The chef is maybe five and a half feet tall and a hundred forty pounds after Thanksgiving dinner, but that expression he makes could make any man feel small.

  Ava and I trade glances. She struggles against a smile, and loses.

  Together we ready the timbale molds. I sift the flour, cocoa, and salt, while Ava whisks eggs with sugar and stirs in some vanilla.

  As we’re prepping, Ava pipes up. “What does that mean…southpaw?”

  “It just means I’m left-handed.”

  “That’s it?” she says, mixing her ingredients with melted butter. The chef puts on some pleasant jazz. “Why so much ado, then?”

  “Ado?”

  She giggles. “I mean, why’s it such a big deal?”

  I humbly shrug. Not sure it’s really a big deal; I’m used to it. “Most fighters are orthodox.”

  It’s her turn to cant her head, needing interpretation. “Orthodox?”

  “Right-handed. A southpaw’s advantage isn’t accuracy or strength, necessarily, but the element of surprise.”

  “You mean your opponents can’t actually guess what you’ll do next.”

  “Well. They can try.”

  Ava smiles, using a pastry bag to fill the molds after I put them on a baking sheet. “I can attest to you being…unexpected,” she says.

  “Oh, yeah? What’d you expect?”

  “More brawns than brains. For starters.”

  “Only for starters?” I ask.

  “I think so.”

  Does she feel that…spark…between us? That pleasant, burgeoning heat? No, just me?

  Together we add more copious chocolate before the bouchons go in the oven. The chef serves coffee and wine while we wait. I’m pleasantly surprised how easy it is just being with her. We’ve established that Ava’s ten years older than me but it doesn’t matter, not to me anyhow. This was meant to be a fun night, for a good cause. It is those things. But also feels like more tha
n that.

  Meant to be?

  We take out the bouchons when the timer goes off, flip them over and let them cool. When they’re ready to eat we flip ’em again and dust them with confectioner’s sugar.

  “These look amazing!” Ava beams. I hold one up and we clink them together like a toast.

  “Can I make a confession?”

  “Shoot.” Ava bites into the finished bouchon, all rich and warm and making her eyes roll back for a moment.

  “I was pretty thrilled when you won.”

  “You were?” She cocks an eyebrow, surprised. Like she don’t know what a catch she is?

  “Very much.”

  “As long as we’re being honest…Sam, I hadn’t intended to bid that much. My friend Sof…” She lets her voice trail off.

  “Should I be offended?”

  “No, not at all! You’re…hot.”

  “Ah, good.” I proffer a smirk. “And your friendship?”

  “Is fine. Although… I might’ve threatened to kick Sofi’s ass.”

  “Ha!” I chuckle around a mouthful of chocolatey gooey goodness. “What’d she say to that?”

  “She said it’d be worth it. She told me to ask you to…show me how.”

  “Is that a formal request?” I wipe the confectioner’s sugar off my face and hands. “Cuz I’d fuckin’ love to, hon.”

  “What,” she says, wide-eyed, “now?”

  “Yes, now.” I take her hand. “C’mon.”

  Three

  Ava

  It’s early evening, nice weather out so Sam takes me to a lovely park. This is all so obscenely romantic—from his chivalry to the leftover pieces of chocolate in a box in my lap—and then I remember I paid for this. Is he into me, or just making sure I get my money’s worth?

  Sam leads me into the shade of a pair of willow trees that overlook a small lake reflecting the setting sun. He could take me home now and it’d have been worth it. I already ate the rest of my chocolate on our way here in his Jeep.

  “I try to keep a relaxed stance,” he says, “not too wide, not too boxy. Like this,” he demonstrates and I mimic him. “Good. Remember to keep your dukes up.” He cradles my fists and lifts them up to shield my jaw.