Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Erin
Cavin’s fighting tonight, and I’m fucking thrilled about it. The guy’s a ticking time bomb of energy, and nothing settles him like a brutal brawl. And let me tell you, watching him in the ring? It’s fucking hot.
There’s something incredibly validating about seeing my man dominate like that. He takes every hit and gives it right back, tenfold. And the raw, primal energy? It’s a fucking aphrodisiac.
So when I slip into that blue top, I know exactly what I’m doing.
It’s backless, held up by the thinnest straps, and it shows off way too much skin. Cavin ordered me not to wear it to the fights or in public. Which, of course, is exactly why I’m wearing it.
I check myself in the mirror one last time. My hair’s wild, falling in messy blonde waves around my shoulders. The fabric clings to all the right places, and the color makes my skin glow under the dim lights.
He’s going to be pissed, and that thought sends a thrill straight through me.
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.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him.
Locks it.
The click of the lock is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.
“Hey, handsome.”
“I told you,” he says, low and rough, “not to wear that.”
“I know.” My voice comes out breathier than I intended.
“You knew damn well what you were doing and wore it anyway, didn’t you?” He stalks toward me slowly, predatory. “You wore it to provoke me. To get a reaction. You deliberately disobeyed me.”
I lift my chin. “Might’ve done.”
“Might’ve done,” he repeats. “You wanted my attention, Erin? Well, you have it now.”
He’s close enough now that I can see the way his pupils are wide, see the muscle flexing in his jaw.
“Turn around,” he says quietly.
My breath catches. “Cavin—”
His hand claps against my arse, hard, the hardest spank he’s ever given me. Oh shit. “This is not the time to sass me, woman. I said, turn around.”
I turn slowly, and I hear his sharp intake of breath when he sees my bare back fully exposed. Can feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch trailing down my spine.
“You have any idea what you do to me?” He’s closer now, right behind me. “Walking around in this, knowing every man in that club is looking at what’s mine?”
His hand touches my lower back, just his fingertips, featherlight, and I shiver.
“You wanted to taunt me. To push me.” His hand slides up my spine, slowly, possessively. “Well done, then.”
Before I can respond, his hand closes around my upper arm, and he guides me toward a thick wooden chair.
He sits.
And then he pulls me down across his lap.
Oh god.
“Cavin—” I gasp, suddenly very aware of my position, of his thighs beneath me, solid and unyielding, how much bigger he is, and how strong. I just saw him beat a full-grown monster of a man to a pulp, and he barely broke a sweat.
“You want to act like a bold girl?” His hand rests on my lower back, holding me in place. “Then you get treated like one.”
My heart’s pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it. I’m draped across his lap, my hands braced on the floor on one side, my toes barely touching on the other. Completely at his mercy.
“This is what happens,” he says, his hand sliding down to rest on the curve of my ass through the thin fabric of my skirt, “when you disobey me.”
I should protest. Should tell him to let me up.
But I don’t want to.
“Do you understand?” His hand flexes, possessive.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good girl.”
His hand disappears, and I have just enough time to tense before—
Smack.
The first spank lands hard, and I gasp, more from shock than pain. The sound echoes in the small room. It’s much harder than the spanking he gave me before. And much… hotter, now that I know what he can do with those hands.
“That’s for wearing the top.”
Smack. The other side.
“That’s for disobeying me.”
The sting builds, spreads, and god help me, but it’s not just pain. It’s heat, need, and something electric sparking under my skin.
But he’s holding himself back—I know he is. Why did I expect him to really lay into me?
Why do I want that?
His hand slides up and finds the zipper of my skirt.
“And this,” he says, with barely controlled restraint, “is so you really learn your lesson.”
He pulls the zipper down slowly. His hand slides under the fabric, tracing the curve of my ass, teasing the edge of my thong. I shiver, anticipation building with each touch.
“Cavin,” I whisper, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and desire.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “I’m not done with you yet.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of my thong, pulling it down slowly, agonizingly. I lift my hips to help him, my body aching with need.
The cool air hits my bare skin, and I feel exposed, vulnerable. But there’s something thrilling about it too, knowing that I’m completely at his mercy.
“Spread your legs,” he commands.
I do as he says, my heart pounding in my chest. His hand slides between my thighs, his fingers finding my most sensitive spot with ease.
I gasp, my body arching at his touch. He’s gentle at first, teasing, but then his fingers become more insistent, more demanding.
“Cavin,” I moan, my hips moving in time with his touch.