Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 57

I'm stung by it... and even though I try not to show it, I'm certain he can tell.

"Have you ever thought," I ask, raising my voice. "About the people you beat up? What if they have families? What about their parents?"

He doesn't reply.

"Or what about some kid who thinks he can fight to make a bit of money, and doesn't know what it takes? You ever fight someone like that? Someone inexperienced?"

"Of course I have."

"And let me guess: You messed him up bad, right?"

"He shouldn't have gotten in the cage."

"So, what, you beat up some eighteen year old kid, where do you think he goes? He goes back to his mother, that's where."

"I don't give a f.u.c.k about them once they leave the cage."

"Is that all it is to you, Pierce? What goes on in the cage? You think the consequences of what you do don't extend outside of it? What about me? Do they extend to me?"

"Like I said, Pen, if you came here to bulls.h.i.+t me, you can f.u.c.king leave."

"You really never think about the people you beat up? What happens to them after you snap their arm or pull their shoulder out? It never occurs to-"

"Hey!" he barks, jabbing a finger into the air. "I step into that f.u.c.king cage, and I fight. And I win. I get the f.u.c.king win, I get my f.u.c.king money, and then I leave. It's what I do."

"Yeah, you get your money and then you f.u.c.k some girl and leave before she wakes up, right? Yeah, Pierce, playboy bada.s.s. You're just a big f.u.c.king man, aren't you?"

A stony silence settles between us. I sigh.

"Pierce," I say, and I make sure my voice is gentle. "I really don't think you should do this fight for the mob. You and I both know that if you win, they'll want you back for another fight because you'll become an investment. If you lose, they'll want you to pay them back for their losses. It's not like the movies, Pierce. These guys don't honor agreements... not if they can make money from it."

He grits his teeth together. I can hear the enamel grinding through his jaw.

"Fine," I say. "I can tell you're getting mad."

"I have to fight this fight, Pen," he says. "No matter what you say, I have to fight it. You're only going to make things worse if you're here to shake my confidence."

"Shake your confidence?" I scoff. "Well, you've definitely got enough of that to go around for two or ten."

"You think so?" he asks. His eyes are wolf-like, savage.

"Yeah. As if I could shake your confidence. Get real."

But he doesn't reply. He just gets up, picks up the bright blue medicine ball, and begins bouncing it against the wall near the front door. He catches and throws, catches and throws, rapidly, while dropped down into a half-squat. It's some kind of total body exercise.

The muscles on his back bulge each time he catches the ball. Beads of sweat glisten on his skin. He continues the same exercise, but now balancing only on his right foot. He throws and catches ten times, then switches to his left.

I watch him repeat the whole process six times, and still he hasn't turned around, hasn't talked to me. I can hear him breathing hard from the exertion, and now those beads of sweat are dripping, leaving s.h.i.+ny tracks down his back.

"Screw it," I say, getting my stuff and walking to the door.

But as I'm about to open it he rings my wrist with his fingers, yanks me around. The medicine ball drops to the floor with a thud, and then he's on me, lips against mine, his hand guiding my fingers down to his crotch.

I feel his hot hardness through his compression shorts. His c.o.c.k is like a curled bar of steel. Frantically, I pull him out, can smell his musk, and then he's undoing my jeans. It's all so quick, a heady rush. I step out of the puddled denim, and he lifts me up, turns me around and presses me against the wall. I curl my legs around him, at his waist.

I grip onto his c.o.c.k hard, pump him in between us, but he holds me up with just one arm, and with his spare hand he wrenches my underwear to the side.

In one powerful movement he thrusts himself all the way inside me, and I wince and groan, overtaken by sensation and a fleeting hint of pain. I feel so full with him inside me.

He starts to f.u.c.k me hard. His thrusts are aggressive. He bangs me into the wall. I bite onto his shoulder to keep from screaming as he f.u.c.ks me with abandon, wildly bucking into me.

I hold onto his neck, grab at the sweat-slick hair on the back of his head, relish the feel of his hot breath streaming down in between us.

His eyes are hard, full of determined l.u.s.t, and he licks a swathe of skin from my ear to my collar bone, like he's some kind of savage animal ready to eat me.

"f.u.c.k you, Pierce," I moan breathlessly. "I hate you."

"You like this, don't you?" he asks, and again he holds me with just one hand so he can pull my head away from his shoulder, so he can look into my eyes. "You wanted this, didn't you? That's why you came here, isn't it, Pen?"

"No," I hiss, my eyes falling shut as he f.u.c.ks me somehow harder.

He pulls my head to him, mashes his lips against mine, and then he's holding my a.s.s with two hands again, lifting me outward in time so that each of his thrusts buries so deep inside me.

I'm totally overwhelmed. I can't do anything but hold onto him and let him have his way with me.

He carries me to the sofa, throws me down onto it, grabs me by the hips and spins me around so that my back is to him.

"Wait," I say, but he closes my thighs together and then pushes himself inside me. I'm blinded by pleasure, scrunch up my face and clench my teeth and make sounds I've never made before.

He f.u.c.ks me harder, faster. His arm snakes around my hip and he starts to play with my c.l.i.t. He drives himself into me over and over again, fingers my bud so well he's got me right at the edge in an instant.

"f.u.c.k," I groan loudly, lifting my hips slightly to meet each of his thrusts.

"You want to come, don't you?" he growls.

I hate to say it, but I do: "Yes!"

His thrusts rock my body. My face grinds into the cus.h.i.+on on the sofa. He twirls my hair in his other hand, pulls my head back, turns me to look at him.

And he looks at me while he f.u.c.ks me, while he fingers me. It takes just seconds, but that pressure inside me explodes, and I crest hard, moan harder, clench tighter.

Pleasure cascades over me, wracks my body, and still he keeps going, keeps bottoming out inside me. Then I hear him grunt, feel his c.o.c.k swell, and he comes inside me again and again, emptying himself right into me.

And then it's over. We're panting, sweating, heaving. He falls down on top of me, stays hard inside me, and kisses me on the back of my neck, on the back of my shoulder.

We don't even say anything. We just lie together on the sofa for so long... I don't even know how long.

"I hate you," I eventually say.

"No you don't," he tells me.

I wriggle out from under him, rush to the bathroom to clean up.

And then I leave without saying goodbye, leave him naked on the sofa, somehow feeling even worse than before.

Chapter Thirty.

She's not here!

It's midway through the fight, and I'm bleeding from a cut above my brow. There's a doctor on site, and he dabs away at it.

"I can see your bone," he says. "I need to close this cut."

"Fine. No shots." My voice is hoa.r.s.e. I took an upper cut that missed my jaw, but got me in the throat. My vocal chords feel bruised.

"You hung over, Pierce?"

I stare at the doctor. "No."

"You sure? You coming down? You pop some pills last night?"

"No. I don't do f.u.c.king pills."

"If you have, I'm going to have to disqualify you. Fallon and that Russian gave me specific instructions. I can't let the fight go on if it's not a fair fight. If you're not all there-"

"I'm all there," I tell him frostily.

"You're lucky they're letting me patch you up. You wouldn't be able to see otherwise."

I glare at the doc and bark, "Close the f.u.c.king cut!"

Breath comes rus.h.i.+ng out of my mouth, a frustrated exhale. She didn't come!

I look around the stands again, scan the faces. I recognize a lot of people, but I can't find Penny anywhere. I honestly thought she'd come to this fight. I honestly believed she'd f.u.c.king come.

The crowd is silent, a far cry from the usual atmosphere of one of my fights. They're silent because I'm getting beat. They've never seen Pierce motherf.u.c.king Fletcher bleed like this before.

And I can't even feel the pain in my head, nor do I even notice the worried or even disappointed looks of the people who came here to see me win.

All I can think about is whether or not Penny will turn up.

G.o.d f.u.c.king d.a.m.n it, she's shaken me.

"You're not doing too well tonight, Pierce."

"I'll be fine."

"Then why am I looking at a cut that will need eight st.i.tches, a half-dozen bad bruises, and a busted lip?"

"Just off my game."

"Off your game? I've watched you fight two dozen times, mate. Off is an understatement."

"Great," I say. "A f.u.c.king fan."

"Never seen you like this. Talk to me, son. What's up?"

I glare into the forty-something man's eyes. Son. That's when I notice his body; wiry-thin. That's when I notice his hair; all-white. That's when I notice his nose; he looks like a f.u.c.king toucan.

"What are you?" I spit. "My f.u.c.king therapist?"

"You're getting your a.r.s.e kicked out there, buddy, and you don't even realize it."

"I realize it."

"So if you don't want to talk to me about it, then you better d.a.m.n well sort it the f.u.c.k out. If you agreed to this fight, then you better belt up and f.u.c.king fight!"

"Save your s.h.i.+tty speech," I tell him. "And do your f.u.c.king job."

He sighs, lifts up the surgical suture needle, and presses it against my skin. "This will hurt. Are you sure you don't want a shot? Listen, I can't stick this closed. I have to sew it."

"Just hurry the f.u.c.k up," I growl at him.

He pushes it through my skin. It's like I feel it, but I don't. The skin tightens, each p.r.i.c.k pulls. But it's not painful. It's the adrenaline... it's... my distraction.

The pain is delayed, comes when he's nearly finished. But my body kick-starts its own internal process to numb the pain. Soon it no longer stings. Soon, it's just a dull ache that throbs to my heartbeat.

"All done."

"Good," I say, getting up off the stool. "Don't f.u.c.king call me 'son'."

I step into the cage. The crowd grows tense, electric. They're not used to seeing me struggle. They are not used to seeing blood on my face.

But I'm going to win this f.u.c.king fight. Sure, I took a punch, a knee, and a kick, but I'm still standing, still ready to fight, still ready to dance until this motherf.u.c.king Russian beast goes down.

Anton Vasilev has been walking around the steel cage while I got st.i.tched up. The f.u.c.king beefcake of a man trod in my blood, smeared it all over the mat. Now he watches with a grin as two men run in quickly and wipe the floor down. Red turns to pink, and then all my blood is gone, staining white, fluffy towels instead.

A bell dings, we tap taped fists, and then I'm dancing around him, bouncing forward and backward. The f.u.c.ker's got thighs like thunder, he wants to leg lock me, get me down onto the mat. He's going to kick, try to get me retreating, off-balance. He knows I'll dodge it; the kick is a feint. I antic.i.p.ate he'll spin into me, try to lock my arm, get on my back.

The kick comes, aimed at my ribs. I side-step out of its path, slapping his leg away. I see his spin before he starts. He spins on his heel, brings his arms out to catch my still-outstretched hand. For such a huge man, he's deceptively fast.