Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Ciarán gives me a knowing look when I emerge from the back room, but he keeps his mouth shut. Smart man. He’s learned not to get between Cavin and me when we’re playing these games.
Because that’s what this is. A dangerous game.
The ring’s packed, the energy electric. There’s a big fight tonight, some arsehole from Dublin thinks he can take Cavin down. Ha! Eejit.
I position myself near the bar where I know Cavin will see me—close enough to the ring that there’s no missing me, but far enough back that I’m “safe” in the crowd.
I should not be here, and I well know it. I put safety precautions in place, of course. All my guards and a few extra.
The lights dim. The crowd roars.
And then… he appears.
Cavin walks through the crowd like he owns the place. Every person here is part of his world, playing by his rules. He’s shirtless, his skin gleaming under the lights, scars and muscles on full display.
My mouth goes dry.
He’s mine.
He’s almost to the ring when his eyes find me.
I watch it happen in slow motion. His gaze sweeps the crowd, lands on me, and stops. I see the exact moment he registers that I’m there. That he sees what I’m wearing, sees the bare expanse of my back, the way the fabric drapes.
His jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark, dangerous.
He points at me, one finger, direct and unmistakable. Then he drags that finger across his throat in a gesture that’s crystal clear: I’m proper fucked now.
I smile at him—it’s slow, deliberate, and defiant.
His nostrils flare, and for a second, I think he might actually climb back down, come over here, and drag me out by my hair in front of everyone.
But the ref’s calling him, and the crowd’s chanting his name. He shoots me one last look of pure promise and climbs into the ring. I stifle a giggle, but the laughter soon dies in my throat when the first punch is thrown.
The fight is brutal.
Cavin’s always controlled in the ring, methodical, but tonight there’s an edge to him, an aggression that goes beyond strategy. He’s punishing his opponent, every punch harder than it needs to be, faster.
Uh-oh.
He’s fighting angry… because of me.
The knowledge does something to me. Heat pools low in my belly, and my skin feels too tight, too hot. I watch the way his body moves—the flex of his shoulders, the blood on his knuckles. The way he dominates the space, the other man, everything.
And my fuckin’ god, I want him.
It’s wrong, probably. He’s dangerous and violent, and he’s definitely going to punish me for this. But watching him like this, all powerful and primal and mine in some possessive way I don’t fully understand… I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
The crowd presses close around me, and I’m grateful for it, grateful they can’t see the way I’m breathing too fast and the flush creeping up my chest. I clench my thighs together, but I’m aroused out of my mind.
I replay the spanking he gave me in the hallway before our first dinner. I remember how hot and bothered I was after, even when I hated him.
How I’d play it over and over in my mind when I touched myself.
Cavin lands a devastating combination, and his opponent goes down hard. The ref counts eight, nine, ten… and it’s over.
Shite.
Cavin’s won. Of course he’s won.
He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t play to the crowd. Instead, his eyes find me immediately, laser-focused through the chaos.
He crooks one finger at me, then points toward the back hallway and his private changing room, and mouths one word:
Now.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
I am not prepared for this.
I’m not ready.
What have I done?
I have to face my husband and can’t even call Bridget. “Hey, so, I did this thing I knew would piss him off, and he’s mentioned a few times that he was going to punish me, and because I’m fucked in the head, I maybe want him to, but now that it’s time, I’m thinking I’m crazy, so…”
My heart kicks into overdrive.
I push through the crowd on shaking legs. My guard moves to follow, but Cavin must signal him off because he stops, letting me go alone.
The hallway is dimmer, quieter. The sounds of the ring fade behind me as I walk toward the changing room door. My hand trembles when I reach for the handle.
I’m scared.
I’m excited.
I’m so far gone for this man.
The changing room is small, sparse. Just a bench, some lockers, and a shower in the corner. It smells like sweat and leather and violence.
I wait.
Every second feels like an hour. I pace, then force myself to stand still. Sit on the bench, then stand again. My pulse is racing, my skin hypersensitive.
What’s he going to do?
The door opens.
Cavin fills the doorway, backlit by the hallway. He’s still shirtless, still streaked with sweat and blood. His chest heaves with exertion, and his eyes are absolutely feral.