Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 27

"You just figured that out now? I've known it all along."

Chapter Thirty One.

Mixed Martial Art is constantly evolving. In the near decade I've been formally training, new techniques have been practiced and favored, and new terms coined for new types of fighters.

But it comes down to the same two overarching categories: Are you a striker, or a grappler?

I'm a grappler. My wrestling training has taught me how to leverage angles, maneuverability, and positioning.

Sure, I can hit. I can hit like a f.u.c.king freight train, but it's not what I'm best at.

When you're in the cage, whether it's training in the gym with your coach or at an underground match in a hidden bas.e.m.e.nt in central London, you do what you do best.

I'm not going to waste time trying to get in fancy body kicks. I'm not going to waste time going for a good-looking cross-punch to the face.

I'm going to get Kaminski onto the mat, and there I'm going to use my better athleticism, agility, and understanding of angles to force him to submit.

That motherf.u.c.ker is going to tap out squealing.

That's not to say that you don't leverage every advantage you have. If I have to gas him out, then I will. I can dance for days, but he'll be huffing in no time.

The aim is to win; nothing else matters. It doesn't have to be a pretty fight. It's not f.u.c.king poetry.

It's blood and broken bones, spit and sweat, blue bruises and torn tendons.

It's about your opponent's submission.

Kaminski has experience over me, brute strength over me, but those are his only two advantages.

I've also got a trick up my sleeve, one I intend to take full advantage of to beat him, to get that money, to get Ca.s.sie and my mother out of trouble.

When the odds are this uneven, there's no such thing as fighting dirty. You're just fighting, any way you can.

Kaminski's a leg man. He entered the pros as a shy kicker, but it wasn't until his thighs ballooned in one off-season that he became a real squeezer.

He could crush the life out of a rhino, of that I'm certain.

He's a brute, a monster, there's no other word really for it. A cheap fighter, too, he's been known to go for the nuts.

He'll break your f.u.c.king kneecap and then tap your ball sack. He'll pull your shoulder from its socket and then still grapple you into a chokehold, suffocate you into submission.

I've never faced an opponent like him. I've fought in some amateur tourneys, done some on-again off-again underground stuff for money. I've gone up against other pro-prospects, but never against someone of Kaminski's caliber.

I've never technically lost a match. But I've never been up against an ex-pro who has seen it all, who knows all the tricks.

Except, I'm hoping, for one.

To say that I have a chance of winning this fight is about as realistic as I can get. I have a chance. It's a long-shot, but it's there.

What I know... what I know is that I'm going to take that chance. It's not going to elude me. I'm not yet certain how; I can't see into the future. But I know when it comes time to climb into that cage with Kaminski, I'll make it work.

I'll do anything to make it work. Ca.s.sie and my mother are all I have in life; therefore, I've got everything to lose.

Nothing more dangerous than a man with everything to lose.

I have the body of a twenty-six year-old in his musculoskeletal prime, with a quick mind and adaptability. I grew into my body fast, and before I knew it I was hulking over my cla.s.smates in gym, a real physical specimen.

But my mind doesn't have the rigid pathways formed by years and years and years of compet.i.tive training. I am not trapped in the same cycles of muscle-memory that can aid a fighter, such as timing a dodge or block, but can hinder one, too.

Muscle memory allows you to do the same things over and over again without thinking about it, going on autopilot. Fighters think it doesn't happen to them, but it does. That's why it's important to keep adding new wrinkles to your fighting game.

Because the moment you're on cruise control, you've lost, even if you don't know it yet.

My mind is still young, malleable, adaptive. Where Kaminski might think that you can't escape a rear naked choke once the arms are locked around your neck and thighs around your waist, I elbow the kneecap, weaken leverage, then try to roll him.

That's the difference. Older fighters... they might not try anymore.

And that's all I have going into this fight. I'm faster, more athletic, but I'm lighter, less strong. I improvise, he doesn't. I'm still learning, and know it. He thinks he knows everything, has seen everything... and that's his weakness.

The only way I'm going to beat Kaminski in the cage is if I trick him, lull him, surprise him. Technically, I can't beat him.

So I won't rely on the technical. I won't be constrained by the book.

I'll fight tricky. I'll fight cheap.

Anything to win this f.u.c.king fight.

Anything to make sure Ca.s.sie will be safe.

n.o.body thinks I have a chance, even though physically I nearly match him.

n.o.body thinks I can win this fight, and so the odds are huge, and the winnings will be, too.

I'm going to win this f.u.c.king fight. I'm going to make us all millionaires.

And then I'm going to take Ca.s.sie back to our hotel room and screw her f.u.c.king brains out.

Chapter Thirty Two.

We take a taxi to the fight. Ca.s.sie is with me, and her father is with us.

My mother didn't come a she couldn't bear to. She stayed at the hotel to pack, to get ready to leave. A room freed up, and she took it.

Ca.s.sie takes my hand, and holds it tight. Her father looks at our clasped hands, then at her, and then at me.

I meet his eyes with a steely stare. He doesn't dare to say anything.

I look at Ca.s.sie, but her eyes are turned toward the window. She's watching a drizzly night in London creep by. We're stuck in traffic, but it's not far.

Wind blows in through the open window, whips Ca.s.sie's hair into my face. I catch her scent, that perfect smell. She's not wearing any fragrance tonight, it's just her. I love it. I love every bit of it. I want that smell every single day.

It's strange how people so different, so opposed, can come together, but here we are. At one point Ca.s.sie and I were opponents, trading barbs while she did her best to resist me.

But now, we're sitting together in silence, holding hands, joined by more than just attraction, a deeper bond.

I remember her words, when she said she wished her dad had never gone to Vegas so that none of this would have ever happened.

I don't look back at the past and try to imagine rewriting it. That's not my style. But if I did, is it crazy that I don't know if I'd agree with her?

Because if everything was different, then maybe we'd be different.

Oh, sure, I'd still have her. I'd have had her on the beach, if not that day, then another.

But it might be different.

I've already got a plan for what's going to happen after I win this fight. Kyle can f.u.c.k off back home. Mom will annul the marriage, and go back to her home. She'll have some money to take home as well, more than enough to set her up for the rest of her life.

Ca.s.sie and I will no longer be stepbrother and stepsister.

And we'll go on a holiday, wherever she wants to, just her and me. I'll make her scream and curse every morning, night, and afternoon. I'll rock her body with pleasure, make her feel special, because she's the only one that's worth it, the only one I want. I'm the only man good enough for her.

She grips my hand harder. She's chewing her lower lip, and distantly picking at her cuticles. Our taxi gets to The Spotted Hen, and we all walk in, me in the lead, past the bouncers.

"Good luck, mate," one of them says to me as I pa.s.s him. "Kaminski's a right bell-end. Hope you f.u.c.k him up."

I don't look at him. We walk down the staircase, across the floor. I look at the cage; new lights have been set up above it.

We go into the back, into the changing room, and there I dump my bag, stop Kyle from coming in, and close and lock the door.

I kiss Ca.s.sie hard against the lockers, then hold her face in my hands. She licks her lips, and I want to taste her saliva so I kiss her again, suck on her tongue, smell her breath, so close, so intimate, everything I want and need.

"Don't you think you shouldn't waste your energy on this before a fight?" she asks me.

"Tease me," I growl at her. "Turn me on, bring me right to the edge."

She c.o.c.ks an eyebrow up. "Why?"

"Testosterone," I tell her. "Get it pumping. I'll need it for the fight."

"That works?"

"Yeah," I tell her. "It's not you, it's biological."

It takes her a moment to get it, but when she does, she sends a hand down to my c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s, grips them hard through my pants.

"You sure you want to mess with me right now, Chance?"

I grin at her. "You don't have to worry. You know you can make me hard with just a look."

She comes in close to me, puts her lips by my ear. "And you can make me wet with just a look."

Hearing her say it sends s.h.i.+vers down my body. My c.o.c.k gets harder, blood surges south, and a lucid, charged l.u.s.t overtakes my consciousness.

"You can make me come with just a finger," she continues, and she traces my ear with her tongue. "And you can make me scream with that huge f.u.c.king c.o.c.k of yours."

I can't take it anymore. Hearing her talk to me like this is just too much. I crush my lips against hers, press her hard into the lockers, and she frantically works my belt, gets it undone, and rips my pants apart.

My bulge is prominent through my underwear, a wet mark already there from my pre-c.u.m. She cups me, strokes me, starts to jerk my curled c.o.c.k through the fabric.

"You can't finish me," I tell her, breathing hard. I'm so wound-up, so h.o.r.n.y from all the working out I've been doing all week, combined with the stress.

G.o.d, I'd give anything to release it now, all over Ca.s.sie's s.e.xy, beautiful face. But that would just ensure my losing in the cage.

"I know the meaning of tease," she says, giving me an 'are you serious?' look. She pushes me off her, takes off her coat, lays it down on the bench, and then presses her back against the lockers and puts her arms above her head.

She's wearing just a tank top and simple black bra, and she looks drop-dead gorgeous. I know an invitation when I see one.

I bury my face in her neck, smell her and love it, kiss across her collar bone, her shoulder. I hold her hands above her, and with my other hand unhook her strapless bra, pull it out the bottom of her tank.

I squeeze her b.r.e.a.s.t.s hard, tweeze and pull at her nipples, pull moans and groans from her mouth. I undo the b.u.t.ton to her jeans, push my hand down her belly and inside, cup her s.e.x, feel her so hot down there already, feel her so wet.

"Let me tease you," she says, before leaning forward and kissing me. I let her hands go while we kiss, while our tongues dance, and she sends her hands south, pulls me out of my underwear, begins to jerk me with both hands.

I kiss her feverishly, one hand on her breast, the other in her underwear, rubbing her c.l.i.t. Her breathing's getting faster, and she's starting to moan more, and she breaks the kiss and looks out of exasperated eyes at me.

"How am I supposed to... to tease you," she hisses, her eyes falling shut, her head lolling back as I push a finger inside her tightness. She's struggling to find the words, her lips are slightly parted, and it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.

I take her bottom lip into mine, kiss her, lick her, devour her. The feel of her warm breath on me is so heady and intimate, it just drives me f.u.c.king nuts.

"How can I tease you," she tries again, her hands slowing down around my c.o.c.k. "If I can't concentrate."

"It turns me on to make you feel good," I tell her, and I push a second finger inside her. She grips onto my c.o.c.k hard, moans as I finger her, play her like an instrument.