Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 1

Unleashed.

A Bad Boy MMA Stepbrother Romance.

By Emilia Kincade.

Note to readers: The story depicted in this book is a full-length adaptation of Saffron Daughter's novella, Chance Her Stepbrother. The full publis.h.i.+ng rights were transferred to this author, Emilia Kincade.

Chapter One.

Looking at her a.s.s is making my c.o.c.k hard.

If she knew I was looking, she'd get all kinds of nervous.

I watch as she walks toward the street outside the school. She's got this a.s.s that makes my throat tighten, plenty to hold on to, to grab and slap.

Just imagining her in my bed, arms pinned above her head, is winding me up. G.o.d, I'd devour every sweet inch of her skin. I'd taste her everywhere, make her feel things she never has before, give her the absolute best lay of her life, and she'd be begging for more.

And I'm always good for more. It's the benefit of being a pro-prospect athlete in my physical prime. I never tire.

My eyes haven't left her. The way she pulls her hair to the side so that it falls down over only one shoulder is something I absolutely love. It's s.e.xy, shows off the back of her neck. I want to plant my lips there, want to kiss her softly, smell her there.

I want to bite her, dig my teeth into her, mark her. I want to hold her from behind, press my hardness into her a.s.s, and tell her in no uncertain terms that I'm going to have her then and there.

Of course, she'd resist. She'd pretend she didn't want it, pretend that she hadn't just spent a year doing her best to ignore me.

I picture driving myself into her, can almost feel her tightness around me, her sweaty body pressed up against mine, her t.i.ts in my face while she rides me hard, moaning in bliss and pleasure.

I'd turn her over, push her face into the pillow and slap her thighs shut so she became even tighter. I'd take from her everything I want.

Give her everything she wants.

And she wants it. That much has always been obvious. I've always known that.

It's not just because I'm me. Girls want me, that's nothing to write home about. I know I'm a looker, hit the genetic jackpot, and not to mention my body: Honed, hard, a product of my fighting training.

How can I credit myself for winning the genetic lottery? To do so would be dishonest.

No, she wants me because she hates me. Now... that I worked on. I will take credit for that.

But the thing about her that drives me crazy?

She's completely oblivious to how hot she is. It just pa.s.ses her by how s.e.xy she is. She has no idea how wound-up she gets me, how I fantasize about her, how she stole my attention the very moment I first saw her.

The truth is, she probably fancies herself a realist.

She probably thinks she needs to lose weight, but give me a.s.s and thighs over skin and bone any day.

She probably thinks that she's not beautiful, that she's not desirable. How wrong she is.

My tongue darts out, wets my lips. I want her, I want her all to myself. I want her to be mine, and only mine.

But she hates me. She's never outright said it, but it's clear that she does. It's not like I planted the seed, she did that on her own. But I helped her to water it in every cla.s.s we shared this last year.

That just makes it more fun. I love a challenge.

I reach into my pocket, pull out my pack of smokes. Coach is always saying I should quit. He's always saying that because I'm an MMA pro-prospect.

I haven't needed to yet. I will someday, but not yet.

I spark up a cigarette, and some teacher I don't know approaches me. He looks like he's got a two-by-four lodged firmly up his a.s.s.

Around us, students from the graduating year pa.s.s by in their gowns, excitedly chattering. School's over, and everybody is either looking forward to going to college, or to going on gap years, which is all the craze.

"You can't smoke on school grounds," the teacher says. His tinny voice seems to drone out from his nostrils.

I just narrow my eyes at him. I watch as he wilts beneath my stare, like a flower beneath a flame. His whole body just keels over and withers.

Before he knows it, his authority is extinguished. What authority he thought he had. I'm not a student here anymore. No old f.u.c.ker is going to tell me what to do.

"What's your name?" he asks.

I just look at him, amused.

"Wait," he says. "I know you."

I take a big drag of my cigarette, let the smoke drift out of my mouth and inhale it through my nose, like an upside-down waterfall.

"You know you can't smoke on school property," he says. "You little s.h.i.+t."

The last word slithers out of his mouth, but he's got no venom. He grows fl.u.s.tered. His face becomes beetroot red. The blackheads on his prize-strawberry nose seem to pop of their own accord.

He storms off huffing.

That was easy, I think to myself, grinning after him. I notice he takes tiny steps, and that he's both flat-footed, and duck-footed.

As a fighter, I notice people's feet.

I walk out of the school, still gazing after her. I had cla.s.s with her for a year, and it was the only cla.s.s I had to attend.

I took a year off school when I was seventeen to do an amateur fight tour in Asia. When I got back, I had to repeat, and then make up what credits I was missing.

f.u.c.k it, I could have taken a wrestling scholars.h.i.+p. But I wasn't about to be a pro fighter who didn't graduate. Besides, it gave me time to work on my craft, and it introduced me to her.

She doesn't really know me, she only thinks she does. It's like that with her for everything. She's got this confidence that I adore, and a stubborn pride in her capacity to judge people correctly.

This girl might be right about many things, but she's not right about me.

She's a teacher's pet, a goody-two-shoes, and she thinks that grades are the only thing in this world that matter. A stereotype... almost.

The difference is she's got a drive I rarely see in others, even the opponents I fight in the cage, or wrestle with on the mat. There's a fire in her, a spring of self-a.s.suredness.

The thing is, these days straight A's and a degree-with-honors won't get you very far. Better to have some skills, something tangible.

But my skills are not the sort she rates. Well, I do have one skill she'd no doubt enjoy... she just hasn't let herself yet.

I'm a fighter: I can grapple with anybody, take a striker down to the mat and force him to submit in ten seconds flat.

I can take a hard hit a dozen times, and still come back for more. Fighting's never about what you can dish, it's always about what you can take.

I've been training the last eight years of my life. I'm going to be a world champion. I'm already booked for an amateur tourney with a prize-pot of a quarter of a mil'.

I intend to walk away with it.

After that, it's working my way into the pros. As with any sport, you got to start at the bottom, pay your dues, and I'll pay 'em gladly.

After all, not everybody gets a chance to do what they love for a living.

"What are you looking at, Chance?"

I turn and see a girl. I struggle to remember her. She looks familiar, if in a samey sort of away. After a while, they all blend together.

It's the facial expressions, I think. Cliques of girls all end up emoting in the same way. It's how they hold their lips, flash their eyes, smirk, or play coy. It's how they speak, enunciate, even what they say.

Her skirt ends just below the curve of her a.s.s, and she's got the top two b.u.t.tons of her uniform blouse undone. I can see her lace bra beneath.

Dark eyeliner rings her eyes, and she's pouting her lips at me, swaying on the spot, hands on her hips. In a bag she's carrying, I can see her crumpled up graduation gown, wrapped around the square academic cap.

Then it comes to me. Then I remember her name.

"Why do you care, Nicky?" I say. I don't bother meeting her eyes.

"I'm Louise." She sounds offended.

"Oh, really?"

"G.o.d, you're a p.r.i.c.k," she hisses. She's got her claws out now. She's got her back arched and her hair is all standing up on end. Her tail has gone all bushy.

I just walk away. I don't try to remember how I know her, but I've got this distant memory. Maybe we fooled around once in my car, couple of years ago now. Truth be told, the memory escapes me. It doesn't matter, anyway.

"Chance!" she calls, jogging up to my side. "I saw your fight last week."

"Yeah?" I say, still walking. She tugs at my arm, but I just level a blank look at her.

She starts to say something, but all that comes out of her mouth is a weird, sticky sound. So I shrug and keep walking, pulling my cigarette down right to the filter before flicking the b.u.t.t.

There's someone else who has my attention. Ca.s.sie Shannon, little-miss-smart, little-miss-perfect.

Every day I catch girls looking at me, either directly, or trying to hide it. But Ca.s.sie? She did her best to never look at me. She did her best to ignore my existence altogether, and whenever our eyes did meet, she looked at me with a kind of hostility I never get from girls.

Most just want to f.u.c.k me... no, they want me to f.u.c.k them. They pander to me, give me what they think I want so I'll give them what they want.

For some, it's simply bragging-rights, and ain't nothing wrong with that. For others, they dream of changing me, taming me.

Some just know a good lay when they see one.

But Ca.s.sie. Now there's something interesting. There's something different.

She grimaced every time I swore in cla.s.s. She groaned every time I called our teacher by her first name, Melissa, who would let me off the hook for turning up late no matter how many times I did so.

Ca.s.sie had conniptions. She rolled her eyes every time Melissa leaned over the table and pushed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s together just as I walked into the room.

"You're late, Chance," our cla.s.s teacher would say, a distinct smoothness to her voice. Her gla.s.ses would be down low on her nose, and we'd always exchange a grin.

G.o.d, Melissa Hatcher was a riot. She'd have been good fun, too, if my eyes weren't set on somebody else.

I don't blame Ca.s.sie for not liking it. This was a teacher being very inappropriate.

Wouldn't be the first time that's happened around me.

By chance, Ca.s.sie flicks her head over her shoulder, and her eyes meet mine. Maybe people got a sixth sense like that, to tell when someone's watching them.

Our eyes lock for a second, and then she looks away. I feel a tingle of residual energy. I feel... more alive. My throat is tighter. My pants are tighter.

She feels something, too. Her gait has changed. Her body language has changed.

I do things to her that she doesn't like, or maybe she just doesn't understand.

I can see it all the way from over here.

She sits down at the bus stop, and at the last moment turns her head. Her eyes are pulled back to mine like a magnet.

I smirk at her, but she just folds her arms and looks cross.

Chapter Two.