Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 28

I work her c.l.i.t at the same time, finger her hard and fast, bring her racing forward. I feel her tighten up, feel her get hotter, wetter around my fingers.

"Yes," she breathes, opening her legs wider for me. She's leaning against the lockers, still gripping onto my manhood, but squeezing it now, not jerking it.

I finger her like I did at the beach, lean forward and claim her lips in mine. She moans into my mouth and I love that. She sends her tongue into my mouth, and I love that.

"Oh, f.u.c.k," she hisses, squeezing me even tighter. She's panting, writhing, and with my spare hand I pull down the sides of her jeans, her underwear.

She helps me urgently, wriggles out of them clamps onto my back when I get closer to her, when I lower myself.

"Don't come," she whispers into my ear. I pull my fingers from her, place the tip of my c.o.c.k at her entrance and drive myself inside her, lifting her up against the lockers.

She lets out a loud cry of bliss, and I f.u.c.k her, pull her hips toward me to meet my every thrust.

"Hold onto my neck," I tell her, leaning back.

I bury my fingers in my mouth, lick all of her s.e.x off them, and all I want is more of her. I send my hand in between us, start to finger her c.l.i.t.

"Louder," I tell her, holding her face with my other hand, forcing her to look at me, forcing her to moan into my face.

I kiss her, f.u.c.k her, finger her. The sounds of our s.e.x bounce off the walls.

"s.h.i.+t," she growls, eyes growing wide. "Like that."

"I know."

"Don't stop."

"I never do."

I see it in her eyes, feel it in her body. That big ball of pressure is growing. I race her right to the top, don't pause, don't stop, send her over the edge.

"f.u.c.k!" she wails, nails digging into me, coming hard all over my c.o.c.k. I drive her through it, keep going, and her whole body is tight and tense with pleasure.

I can feel her tightness around my manhood, and f.u.c.king h.e.l.l I'm so d.a.m.n close to blowing my load inside her.

But then she's coming down, shuddering, shaking, knees week. We drop to the floor, she on top of me, me still inside her, and she straddles me before falling onto my chest, heaving, panting.

"Oh f.u.c.k that was good," she breathes into my ear. I kiss her, smell her, lick up the sheen of sweat on her neck.

I love every inch of this girl.

A closed fist bangs against the door, and a voice booms through, startling Ca.s.sie.

"Chance Hudson, ten minutes!"

She climbs off me quickly, and I sit up, groaning, more s.e.xually frustrated than I can ever remember being.

My c.o.c.k is still hard as f.u.c.king steel, and looking down at myself, seeing her c.u.m all over me, just frustrates me more.

Ca.s.sie's busy getting her jeans and bra back on again, and I'm just standing around with a b.o.n.e.r that won't go away.

"I might have to tape this f.u.c.king thing to my leg," I tell her.

She grins. "You said you wanted to be teased."

My heart is racing, and I know being this wound-up is giving me an extra reserve of strength, of determination. It's making me feel more aggressive.

Ca.s.sie opens my bag, and pulls out my tape, my compression shorts.

"Come on," she says. "You'd better get changed."

I step toward her, bring her close to me, hold her tight against me, my manhood hard and awkward in between us.

I smell her again behind her ear, smell her hair, kiss her neck, then take her lips into mine in a long, slow kiss, one I never want to break free of.

I need her taste on my tongue, her smell in my mind, when I'm in that cage.

She's what I'm fighting for, and every second I'm reminded of it only makes me stronger.

When our kiss breaks, her eyes are red. I smirk at her.

"The h.e.l.l you about to cry for? I'm going to win this fight."

"I know," she says, running her hands over my chest. "Just try not to get hurt too badly."

"I almost came inside you, you know."

"I know," she says.

"Your dad will have heard us."

She laughs. "Like I f.u.c.king care anymore."

I grin.

I turned a good girl bad.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Kaminski approaches me in the cage, knocks his head against mine, so I head-b.u.t.t him back, stare into his oddly gla.s.sy eyes.

"You ready, boy?" he barks into my face. I don't flinch, I don't back up, I just push my head into his, and grin at him.

"Are you, old man?"

"I may be old but I'll f.u.c.king break you. I haven't been licked yet."

"How's it going to feel?" I ask him. I grab his taped fists, squeeze them hard in my grip. "When you lose to some young punk like me? You going to retire, run away from the underground, too?"

That gets him riled. He huffs, grinds his teeth together.

Anything to get him off-balance. Anything to win. That's how it goes in the cage.

"Alright," the bald referee says, separating us with two beefy arms. He points at Kaminski. "No cheap shots."

We back up, the referee slices his arm down the air between us, and the fight is on.

First thing's first, I need the spectators on my side. I charge toward Kaminski, duck his sweeping hook, stutter-step left and right like a football player, before running up the cage fencing and leaping off, landing a blow straight onto the top of his head.

Kaminski clutches at his head briefly, and I back up, my knuckles on fire.

But that's all it took.

Already the crowd is silenced, and that's what I want. I don't want them cheering Kaminski on. I want my opponent to hear the deafening silence of doubt.

I need to undermine his confidence.

"See," I tell him, lifting my fists, beckoning him, grinning, taunting. "Old man slow right there."

Kaminski shakes off the hit, but he's already noticed how stunned the crowd were by my darting move.

He lifts his fists, boxer style, and starts to approach me with hopping steps, keeping his options open.

He wants to be able to throw a jab and counter with a kick, or feint a kick and swing a hook, or grab a hold of me and slam me to the mat.

By hopping, by not planting his feet, he keeps every option open, and makes his own moves unpredictable.

I settle into my stance, leading with my right. I watch his eyes flick to my fists and my feet, and then he grins at me. So he's noticed I'm fighting left-handed.

Good.

We circle each other, dance around each other. I pay attention to the rise and fall of his feet, his weight distribution, the exact timing of his bobbing.

Kaminski checks me out, too. He's never had the benefit of watching me fight before, and he doesn't know what I'm capable of.

He may be old, he may be bitter, but he's no idiot.

I don't dare take my eyes off him. I want to look at Ca.s.sie, see her face, give myself that adrenal shot of purpose.

I'm fighting for her.

So I conjure up her face in my mind instead, think about her future, everything she wants to accomplish, everything threatening to be derailed by her f.u.c.king father.

I think of our future, together...

Our future!

If I'd told myself a year ago I'd be thinking like this, planning ahead with a girl... well, I'd have laughed myself out of the room.

"Come on you f.u.c.k!" he growls.

He makes his move, swings a head-kick my way. It's quick, deceptively so, but I block it in time, slap his leg away and spin out of counter-s.p.a.ce.

Kaminski switches pivots, but I know his kick is going to be a feint. He tests with his foot, then immediately launches himself forward, but again I spin away, use my turning momentum to throw a punch into his side with my left.

He backs away for a moment, looking at me from beneath bunched brows.

f.u.c.k. I used the wrong leg to pivot my spin, and he's confused. He thought I was a southpaw, a lefty, but now he's starting to realize I may be fully ambidextrous.

I settle more weight onto my right leg, try to sell my left-handed stance.

It's all strategy. Some idiot f.u.c.khead might think I'm being cheap, but winning a fight is not just a matter of strength and speed; it's all a mind game.

Get into your opponent's head, find a way to beat him. Some people hate it when you talk about their mother, others hate it when you tease them about swinging the other way.

But for most fighters, getting in their head is about deceiving them of your abilities, and then surprising them when the stars are aligned.

I need to get Kaminski where I want him, where I can take him down to the mat, grapple him, use my body to leverage his into a position where he can't fight back.

And then choke the motherf.u.c.king life out of him.

I hop forward, jab with my right, hook with my left. He blocks my hits, counters lightning-fast for an old man.

I take a thump in the side; it lifts my whole body off the mat.

I duck the follow, sweep a kick at his calf. He skips it, tries a thunderous punch toward my temple. I roll away, kick off the mat and take Kaminski off his feet by his knees.

He hits the mat hard, like a wet bowling ball slapping concrete. I scramble over him, hook my arm beneath his armpit, roll over his back and wrap up his waist with my legs.

I pin his hips to the mat, turn his body so he has no purchase, no push-off point.

I grab hold of my own wrist, and pull the nook of my elbow up higher beneath his chin, digging into the side of his neck, squeezing his throat closed, and every major artery, too.

I've got Kaminski locked up, a rear naked choke, and he's trying to roll me, trying to get leverage.

"Got you, motherf.u.c.ker!" I snarl into his ear. The sweat from his hair sprays at me each time he moves.

He's growling, drooling saliva, and the skin tone of his body has gone from tanned to deep red. He's p.i.s.sed, and he's embarra.s.sed that I got him to the mat so quickly.

He throws a fist backward over his left shoulder, but I dodge it. I don't antic.i.p.ate the second punch, though, over his right.