Possessive Fighter Read online Flora Ferrari

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors:
Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 150(@200wpm)___ 120(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)

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Possessive Fighter

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Flora Ferrari

Book Information:

I didn’t want to come here, I shouldn’t even be here. But something good has to happen, it couldn’t get much worse.
I’ve heard my dad say the illegal fights are the only ones where you can make any real money. If you bet on the right fighter.
Trouble is the guy we owe all the money to? He also runs the fights. As soon as I see him though, my fighter I just know he’ll win. And I’m betting more than all our money on him.
I’m betting my life he’s the man I think he is. A lover and a fighter. Is there such a thing as both?
I can’t wait to find out.

Go down in the fourth. Get paid, go home. Simple.
Marconi’s fights means Marconi’s rules and until today I never cared less about who won or lost, as long as I got paid.
But as soon as I sense her, even before I even see her sweet thick curves, I know she’s the only thing I want to be going down for. Throwing a rigged fight, a Marconi fight? It’s suicide.
But I’d rather die trying to help who I can see clearly needs it than die wondering what could’ve been, what should’ve been just one thing.
Books by Author:

Flora Ferrari

Chapter One


It’s all I have in the world, it’s all dad’s and my savings plus the month’s rent that’s due and I’m betting it all.

I have to.

Something good just has to happen.

We’re gonna lose everything otherwise.

They almost don’t let me in, the fight’s about to start but the ugly guard at the door recognizes me. He’s the one they used to collect payments from my dad and me.

He unblocks the doorway to the underground brick basement inside a disused factory, only when I casually flash enough cash to let him know I’m here to spend, not to watch.

“That Mr. Marconi’s money? You must be due for a payment,” he sneers, showing the gap in his gums where he’s lost half his teeth, his ear only a half ear now.

The price for milking Marconi. The price for helping himself to what wasn’t his.

But that’s exactly what I intend to do.

I have to.

I shudder internally and push my way past him, going down a series of narrow stone steps which echoes the growing surge of sounds from the fight arena.

I know as much about bare knuckle fighters as I do about successfully negotiating mob finance, but as soon as I see him, I know my luck’s turned.

The sheen of sweat off his huge back is all I can see for now. His skin heaving in tune with his breath between fights. The price of his opponent’s loss sprayed across him like a crimson collection notice.

Paid in full.

I gasp out loud, which goes unnoticed over the throng of jostling gamblers, fighters and trainers. There’s something in the way his body tenses once I get closer, his head twitching to one side without turning.

I know he can sense me and I watch the fibers of his muscles contract, sending ripples through my own body. A wave of something I least expected from this place.

My own arousal.

The semi-circle of spectators, all men and all with wads of cash gripped tight in their sweaty, nicotine stained hands move open to let me in. A spectacle in itself.

There’s a few jeers, some wolf whistles, but mostly complaints about a girl being here.

I’m safe though, thick, heavy girls whose dad’s owe money don’t count.

“What you doin’ here, little girl?”

“Lost your daddy…? I’ll be your daddy… C’mere. Let me show you how daddy does it…”

The insults, the groping hands, it’s almost as much as I can take, until I hear his low growl that cuts through all of it. I hear the sound of a wild beast, a dominant alpha, the leader of the pack who’s asserting himself above it all.

The fighter turns, and now I can see his face, making me gasp again. He’s hurt and my first, my only reflex is to rush to him, to touch him. To kiss him all better.

A hush comes over the crowd as the fighter moves over towards me, his powerful frame towering over everyone and everything present. I struggle to think why he’s here, fighting like this for money. A man this strong, this powerful and certainly this handsome could have, should have the world at his feet.

But I’ll do for now. I’ll be at his feet forever if he keeps looking at me like this.

His dark eyes blaze, his nostrils flare as he takes me in for the first time, drawing another shuddering gasp from me as I try to get a grip on the sudden rush of heat to my center while my chest stiffens. I can feel my pebbled nipples instantly thicken with his attention through my white blouse.

Another low growl of satisfaction echoes through the arena as his eyes travel up and down me, pausing at my hips, chest and finally on my face. His eyes soften, but only for a moment, his hands reflexing into the tools of his trade.


I can’t take my eyes off his. He must be six seven, he’s huge. Nothing but yellow wraps on his hands and a pair of black shorts, showing he’s all man at a glance.

I detect a definite shift in his shorts, making me bite my lip as we share the first signs of mutual recognition and attraction from the cocking of his brow.

I’m not imagining it. He likes what he sees and I don’t need to look twice to know that it feels like Christmas, and I want him to unwrap his present now.

But whatever chemistry’s in the air has to wait. The small smile playing at one side of his mouth turns to a snarl as he senses his next opponent, who’s led into the ring to thundering applause, mixed with a few die hard boos and hisses.

“Are you bettin’ or gawkin’?”

A rough voice is matched with an equally rough face. The squat, brash bookmaker ruins my view of male perfection, the slimy wet cigar stub in the corner of his mouth forcing a sickening slurp from him as he prompts me again with a jerk of his chin.