Chapter Eleven
Connor
My sweet girl was curled under the duvet she’d pinned seven times on Pinterest, her sleep shirt riding up to expose a sliver of soft stomach. The fire alarms I’d installed doubled as the highest quality cameras. My cock throbbed against my thigh, angry and neglected.
Eight hours since I left her.
Eight hours since I had my fingers in that sweet pussy and learned exactly how perfect she tasted. The memory alone had me painfully hard, my fist sliding down to grip myself with force. On-screen, Sierra shifted, the duvet slipping lower.
“Fuck,” I growled, hips jerking into my fist as the water burned my skin.
The expensive cameras I’d installed this morning showed every detail. The way her little nipples peaked under thin cotton when she rolled onto her back, the flutter of her eyelids as she dreamed.
Of me? Will she touch herself tonight, thinking about my hands? My mouth? The way I’d pinned her wrists to the couch and growled ‘mine’ against her throat until she’d believed it too?
My balls tightened, precum mixing with the shower spray.
I’d left the new pair of panties I stole from her hamper this morning folded neatly beside the sink.
I couldn’t risk ruining her scent in the shower, not when it was the only thing keeping me from tearing this fucking hotel apart to get back to her.
The tracker in her keychain showed she’d gone straight home after the airport, and the cameras proved Louise had checked all her locks for her.
She sighed in her sleep, one hand drifting to rest on her breast through that thin shirt. My teeth sank into my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
That’s my touch. My hands. My mouth. Whether she knew it or not, every inch of her belonged to me. I’d known since I’d first seen her at that signing. She was mine to have, mine to protect, and mine to devour.
The water turned icy, but I didn’t adjust it.
The pain kept me sharp. A punishment for leaving her.
For needing to be here in Vegas instead of buried inside her, where I belonged.
My fist moved faster, the friction bordering on painful as I imagined her tight, perfect pussy squeezing my cock instead.
“I should’ve eaten you out before I left,” I muttered to the empty bathroom, my voice drowned by the shower. “I should’ve tied you down so you couldn’t run,” I recalled the feeling of her pussy squeezing my finger so tightly, and how her soft skin beneath my hands.
Sierra’s knee hitched higher on screen, the hem of her shirt riding up to reveal pink cotton panties similar to the first pair I’d stolen. Sierra needed to stop tempting me. She needed to stop being so fucking desirable all the damn time.
The orgasm ripped through me violently, and all I could see was Sierra’s pussy milking me. Cum splattered the shower wall in thick streaks and washed away before the evidence could linger.
Fuck. I should’ve held out. I should’ve waited until I could bury my face in her stolen panties and come like a civilized fucking man.
But Sierra did that to me. Reduced me to a feral animal with a single sleepy sigh.
I turned off the water, stepping out of the shower. The iPad showed her moving to the kitchen now, Toffee weaving between her ankles as she filled her kettle in nothing but that goddamn shirt and panties. My cock twitched, half-hard again already.
“Put on socks,” I ordered the screen, knowing she couldn’t hear me. “And a robe. You’re alone.”
She didn’t. She just got to brewing her tea while her perfect tits bounced with every step.
Her soft, perfect tits that fit perfectly my hands when I held them.
I’d mapped every curve of them this morning, licked and sucked until she’d cried my name.
The memory had me palming myself again, thumb smearing precum across my head. I could never get enough of her.
The panties called to me from the counter. One sniff, and I’d be lost.
Fuck it.
I grabbed them, pressing the cotton to my face as I leaned back against the sink. Her scent exploded in my lungs—lavender and arousal and all her.
The cameras showed her bending to retrieve Toffee’s toy, her sweet ass on full display. My hips jerked forward, the edge of the counter biting into my spine as I fisted myself roughly for the second time.
“That’s it, sweet girl,” I growled into the cotton. “Show me what’s mine.”
She straightened, unaware of the audience. Unaware of the monster in Vegas stroking his cock to her security cameras.
The second orgasm hit harder, my vision whiting out as I spilled over my fist with a choked curse. The panties stayed pressed to my face, her scent the only thing keeping me grounded without her here.
On-screen, Sierra sipped her tea, oblivious.
I’d do anything to keep her this way.
The scale’s digital display blinked red under the stadium lights—247.6 pounds of pure fucking violence. I rolled my neck until it cracked, the sound swallowed by the stadium’s primal chant— Kill-er! Kill-er! Kill-er!
The crowd roared as I stepped off the platform, shirtless in all my glory. Sierra was probably nibbling her lip raw right now, watching the stream, curled on her couch, a six-hour flight away while I let these vultures fucking gawk at me.
Diaz strutted up for his turn, all oiled muscles, and a dumbass steroid swagger.
“Looking soft, Graves,” he sneered, flexing for the cameras.
His left eyelid twitched—the tell I’d studied in twelve hours of fight tapes—weakness disguised as bravado.
I leaned into his space, sweat dripping off my jaw onto the WBC logo between us.
“You’ll be softer when I rearrange your face.”
My sweet girl was watching, my sweet, anxious girl, and I needed this meathead’s head on a fucking platter for her.
The reporters went crazy. Diaz’s fist shot out—a half-assed jab I dodged by tilting my head a mere quarter inch. His knuckles grazed air where my face should’ve been.
“Control your mutt,” I growled at his coach, not breaking eye contact. Diaz’s nostrils flared, the vein in his temple throbbing. Good, he’ll burn through his adrenaline before the bell even fucking rings.
In the locker room, Jax taped my knuckles while discussing strategy.
“Left knee’s favoring,” he muttered, eyes on the security feed where Diaz paced in the hall like a caged hyena. “Feint right, liver shot left. You’ll be done by round three. ”
Adrian tossed a water bottle across the room. “Nah, man. The dude’s gonna aim for that pretty face. Gotta protect your moneymaker for the bee.”
I crushed the bottle mid-air, ice water dripping down my arm. “Call her that again, and I’ll repurpose your jaw as a punching bag.”
Coach Miller’s clipboard slammed onto the bench. “Focus. Diaz overextends on his cross. Slip it, counter with the overhand.”
I didn’t need the advice. I’d dissected Diaz’s tells until I saw them in my sleep—the way his right foot dragged half a beat too slow after a combo, the catch in his breath before throwing a body shot. I was fucking ready.
The walk to the ring was a warpath, security parting and cameras flashing. Chants of Kill-er! Kill-er! merged with the memory of Sierra’s soft body from yesterday. Next time, she’ll be here. Next time, her cheers will be the only thing I fight for.
Diaz bounced on the balls of his feet, gloves tapping his shorts like a toddler needing the bathroom. The ref droned rules I’d etched into my bones after my first professional fight. Keep it clean. Protect yourself at all times.
Bullshit. There was nothing clean about what I was about to do to him.
Round One
Diaz lunged first, a sloppy right hook that whistled past my ear.
I let it graze my temple, savoring the burn.
Weak. His left eyelid flickered, and I slipped inside his guard.
My uppercut cracked his ribs with the precision of a 250-pound axe splitting oak.
I controlled the pace, letting him burn himself out.
He jabbed, and I countered with a check hook that split his orbital. Blood sheeted down his cheek, bright and ugly under the spotlights.
“Fuck you, Graves!” he spat through his mouth guard. I fucking had this, the thrill of the fight ran through my veins.
Round Two
His corner screamed about footwork, but it was too fucking late.
I feinted left, his eyelid flickered, and then he swung wild, a desperate overhand right. I ducked, pivoted, and drove a liver shot so deep I felt his spleen bruise. He staggered, nearly falling to the ground, loud gasps coming from the crowd.
Sierra’s probably covering her eyes right now. Good girl. Don’t watch this.
The bell had saved him. Barely.
Round Three
He limped now, all under my own handiwork. I stalked him like a wolf cornering wounded prey, relishing how his hands trembled.
His left dropped half an inch, and there it was. My next hit was a right cross that snapped his head back, his mouth guard arced through the air.
I wanted to finish it, but I let him recover, let the crowd taste his fear. It was more fun this way.
Round Four
Adrian’s voice cut through the noise from my corner. “Quit playing with your food, Killer!”
Diaz swung a desperate uppercut, but I caught his wrist, twisted it until the bones groaned, and slammed him square in the jaw.
He crumpled against the ropes, blood gushing down his chin. The ref stepped forward, but I shot him a look that froze his hand in mid-air. This wasn’t over.
Round Five
The bell hadn’t finished ringing before I was on him. My fist found his the other side of his jaw—once, twice, three times—each impact singing through my veins like a drug.
He didn’t hit the canvas.
He melted like a puppet with its strings cut, and the crowd lost its fucking mind.
The locker room was our place of victory. Adrian stitched the cut above my eyebrow, humming, while Jax cracked a beer on the edge of the sink, foam fizzing over the side. “Diaz is gonna need dental work after that uppercut.”