For the first time in ten years, the thought disturbs me.
Britt
The new fighter is… odd, to say the least. Half the time, when I ask him a question, I’m not certain if he’s answered. Not trusting my poor hearing, I’ve taken to staring at his lips to try and decipher his words. But it’s not my subpar hearing keeping me from catching his responses. It’s my fascination with his lips, the flashes of pink tongue as he speaks, the gray eyes peeking under the hood of his thin sweatshirt.
Like I do to everyone else, when I directed him to sit, I made sure to put him on my good side. Despite my actions, I still can’t hear him because the man is just that quiet. Even my usual trick of keeping my voice low so people will come closer, helping me to hear them better, isn’t working.
And he keeps trying to hide his face. Which is strange, because he is absolutely gorgeous. So gorgeous, in fact, that I can’t stop staring. Yeah, he looks like a typical fighter, slightly crooked nose, beat-up ears, scar in the eyebrow, all the usual signs. Despite his flaws, and the fact his hood keeps sliding down over his brow, it’s obvious he’s stunning.
“Tell me your fighting history.” I roll my chair back from the desk and spin to face Killer. I can’t believe I have to call him Killer. It’s ridiculous, but whatever. “Where did you start?”
The big man ducks his head again, his voice low and steady, but still difficult for me hear. I scoot my chair closer and his head jerks up at the scraping sound. When Killer finally, for the first time since arriving, fixes his gaze directly on me, my brain stutters and stalls. My god, he’s not simply stunning—he’s both an angel and a devil at the same time—near hypnotizing to observe. Clear, silver eyes, unlike any I’ve ever seen, focus on my shocked face.
For a moment, we both simply sit there, staring at each other. It should be painfully uncomfortable, yet it’s not. Killer breaks eye contact first, probably because I’m too spellbound by those quicksilver eyes to move.
“Ummmm, I’m sorry. I don’t hear well. So… I thought. I mean, I needed to get closer to hear you.” Beads of sweat dot my hairline, threatening to run down my temples.
Oh my god, did I just admit my hearing issues to this complete stranger? A gorgeous stranger, but still, a stranger.
Killer frowns, but answers my question after clearing his throat. “I started training ten years ago. In Thailand.”
Those mesmerizing gunmetal eyes keep glancing up at me from whatever spot on the institutional tile floor he’s found so fascinating.
“Very impressive.” I lean back in my chair. Now that he’s speaking at a normal volume, I realize how close together we’re sitting. My knee is a hairsbreadth from touching his. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Laundry detergent mixed with his body wash, plus his undeniably male scent hits me every time I inhale, causing my head to spin.
Killer grunts at my compliment and begins picking at a tiny fray on the bottom hem of his sweatshirt.
Okay. Not much of a conversationalist, at all.
“Muay Thai then?” I ask, turning to check with my computer. “Gabriel said you did jiu-jitsu.”
“Both,” he mumbles, the tiny hole now a bit larger. “Moved to Brazil after living in Thailand for five years.”
My head whips up. I’m astonished. “You studied in both countries? For five years each?”
Killer nods, still focusing on the fabric in his hands. By now, the bottom of his sweatshirt is unraveling from those digging fingers. Nervous tic. I’m quite familiar with those, having dealt with an involuntary one after my surgeries.
“I’m impressed,” I admit. “What about injuries? Anything major?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Minor?”
“Few sprains, aches here and there. Nothing big.” Those haunting eyes lift to mine again and he lifts a dark eyebrow. “I broke my arm once. Does that count?”
“Yeah,” I smile. “It counts.” Reluctantly, I pull myself away and roll my chair back behind the desk so I can enter the information. “Which bone?”
“Left humerus.”
“You’re right-handed, though. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Any problems with your arm since the injury?” I glance up when he doesn’t answer. “Killer?”
“No.”
“Mind if I ask how you broke it?”
The clouds must part and the angels are singing because a miracle happens. The man smiles, and it’s so beautiful it’s worth every irritating grunt and nonverbal answer he’s given so far to be able to witness what I assume is a rare event. A single dimple appears on one cheek and the teeth he reveals are perfect. I hold in a gasp. With one smile he takes years off his face and appears a heck of a lot less scary.
“I refused to tap out of an arm bar.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Ah, he’s stubborn. Good thing I am too, or else the handsome but intimidating man would trample all over me and my swirling hormones.
I add his cause of injury to the file and stand up with the intention of asking a few more basic questions. Killer reacts by leaping to his feet in a motion so quick and so soundless, I stumble back over my own shoes, headed for the floor. His massive hands shoot out, wrapping around my shoulders to keep my clumsy self from going down.
Oh my god.
I find myself paralyzed in his arms, our eyes locked, my heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. Unable to move, I examine this strange, beautiful man, with his secrets and his quiet, gruff voice and intriguing eyes. His scent overpowers me, seeping into my skin and causing a flare of lust to spark.
Close up, I notice a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He appears almost vulnerable, not the hard-edged, take-no-prisoners fighter he claims to be. For me, there’s a serenity in being in his arms. A peaceful calm I haven’t felt since before “the incident.”
“What’s your real name?” I whisper, our faces so close his soft breaths fan across my face.
A gust of air hits me as Killer releases me, jumping back. My skin is cold without his heated touch. I didn’t realize how much I would miss the unapproachable man’s embrace until it’s gone.
He stands a few feet away, hood pulled so far over his brow I can no longer see the silver irises that say so much about a man who says so little. His hands are fisted at his sides and his head is tilted toward the floor.
“My name is Killer.”
My pulse is still racing, my poor heart not yet recovered from being so close to this man, a man I shouldn’t let affect me. But with that blissful calm combined with intense desire, being in his arms could easily become an addiction. To be able to let go, to shut off the anxiety, the worry, the fear… it’s tempting to dive in headfirst and worry about the repercussions later.
“Well, I’m going to call you K.” His head whips up in surprise and for a moment, I get a peek at that vulnerability again. I smile, but because of his tense stance, this time my smile is tense, strained. “You’re too sweet for a name like Killer.”
K’s face goes on complete lockdown, from raw and exposed to hardened lethality in the blink of an eye. Chills break out across my skin at the transformation. Now I detect what I missed the first time around. The man is danger, pure and simple. His muscles are tight, bunched up, ready to attack. His body language would scream at anyone passing by to turn and run in the other direction. His mere presence should be enough to frighten even the bravest of souls, yet here I am, breathing in his scent, leaning slightly forward, wanting to reach out and climb in his arms. Be held by him. Touch him.
“No. Make no mistake. I’m not sweet. I am a killer.” He spins on his heel and with that, I’m left alone in my tiny office. The only reminder K was ever here is the slight scent of his soap and the fact my heart is still hammering against my ribs.
I’m afraid, but not of K. The fact that I’m not afraid of him is what I’m worried about. Instead of heeding every warning my brain is putting out,
I need to find a way to get closer to the man instead of further away.
* * *
Gabriel pulls up the correct file and hits play on his computer. The massive television set in his office lights up. The clip displayed was shot in a practice ring at a gym I’m not familiar with.
The door to an empty cage opens and two men enter. My mouth falls open in shock. The men are both fighters, both clearly in peak physical condition with cut, sinewy muscles and a lightness to their step that takes years of training to perfect.
Hundreds of fighters have passed through these doors over the last two years, so that’s not why I’m gaping. It’s the raw sexual appeal of the man wearing snug-fitting black Lycra shorts with red lettering, lithely bouncing on his toes, that draws me in. His entire torso is covered with ancient-looking tattoos—arms, chest, back, heck, there’s even one on his neck, stretching up one side. I’ve never seen anything so menacing, yet so erotic.
My eyes flick up to the fighter’s face. Killer.
“Holy crap,” I murmur. He looks like a lethal jungle cat, sharp gaze fixed on his opponent. He is the very definition of sex; every movement, every sinewy ripple, every fluid step, sends a rush of blood to long-dormant places in my body.
Gabriel laughs. “I know. Wait till you see him in action, minha filha.”
I smile at Gabriel’s endearment. He calls everyone dear to him “my daughter” or “my son.” I don’t speak Portuguese. I only know what it means because I asked once.
“This is only sparring with no grappling. The trainer told them to stay upright so his striking could be assessed,” Gabriel adds, but my eyes are glued to the screen. I don’t want to miss a single second of Killer in action.
The sound is off, but the bell must ring because the men start moving. Watching K fight is hauntingly beautiful. Like a predator stalking a kill. Every action he takes is effortless, deliberate. He moves so fast there is little time for his opponent to react. K hits and kicks the other man over and over, each strike lashing out and retreating like the flick of a whip. I’m mesmerized by his body.
A few minutes later, the two men tap gloves and the film ends.
“I need to watch it again.”
Gabriel hits play and the clip starts over. It takes four more times through for me to study K’s positioning, two just to stop staring at his beautiful face.
I move behind the keyboard and tap until the screen is frozen on K standing on one leg.
“See, right there.” I point to the screen. “His left knee slightly hyperextends when he delivers a kick with his right leg. Eventually, if he’s not careful, he can tear his posterior cruciate ligament.”
Gabriel squints. “I don’t see that. He seems fine to me, minha filha.”
Grinning, I pat the older man on the back. “I know, but trust me. Other than that, he’s perfect.”
Gabriel turns to me, and this time it’s his turn to smirk. “Perfect, eh?”
My cheeks heat up, fire racing all the way to the tips of my ears. “I-I don’t mean…”
“Relax, Britt. Eu falo pelos cotovelos.”
I tilt my head, confused.
Gabriel gives me a small smile. “It means I’m only joking with you.”
“Right.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. If Gabriel knew what I was thinking when I watched K fight, I’d die of embarrassment.
“Okay, Britt. You can go. We can study his ground game tomorrow. Jiu-jitsu, meu favorite.” Gabriel grins and claps his hands, rubbing them together in anticipation. “Killer, he trained with Rafael.”
I nearly choke in surprise. “With Rafael? Rafael Lima?” K mentioned training in Brazil, but failed to mention Rafael Lima. Rafael is the most famous jiu-jitsu expert in the world, second only to the Gracie family.
“You will catch flies with your mouth, meu querida. You are shocked and you’re right. He is very young to have so much training from the masters.” Gabriel shrugs. “But he does, and he’s here with us. Our job is to make sure he gets to use his potential in the cage.”
“He doesn’t need us for that,” I mumble. Thankfully, Gabriel already left his office and doesn’t hear my comment.
I head back to my own little room and sit at the computer. Fascinated and needing to know more, I bring up K’s file and I read the scant information I find.
Who is this guy?
I don’t even know his real name. Killer Bishop. That’s what the file says. His date of birth shows he turns twenty-eight later this year, which makes him a little less than four years older than me. No address, no phone number, no hometown, no medical file. It’s as if K didn’t exist until he showed up here. The league requires him to provide all of that information to go pro.
Even though I should be afraid, I should stay detached from the man who throws up every red flag in the book, I’m not. K is a complete mystery, and I’m enthralled. He’s a mystery I intend to solve.
Killer
Halfway through my second day at Souza MMA, and I’m still watching from the sidelines, itching to punch something. Gabriel handed me off to his wife, Mariana, for a tour when I arrived this morning. No one said a word about me rushing out the door after my appointment yesterday with the tiny blonde physiologist.
Britt, her name is Britt.
She isn’t here yet today. Not that I’m looking. Fuck, who am I kidding, I’m totally looking for her. I shouldn’t. She’s all big, innocent blue eyes and rosy pink blushes. I’d take everything good about her and ruin it in a heartbeat. And god do I want to ruin her. I want to strip off those uptight clothes, force her to her knees, and grip her hair while I fuck her face.
No, that’s not true. That’s what I do to women, what I’ve done to women in the past. Use them. Get off and toss them aside. Britt… she’s not like that. She’s… different. And that’s what makes her dangerous. This girl could easily undo everything I’ve created to survive over the last ten years, tear down every wall I’ve built, every façade I’ve put up.
Shit. It’s like she’s an obsession. I dig my fingers into my palms until they bite through the skin. Adjusting my cup under my skintight fight shorts helps to ease the pain of having a semi-hard dick trapped inside. I’m getting turned on and I haven’t even laid eyes on Britt yet today.
“Killer! Ready?”
I press my lips together and nod at Gabriel. In one quick move, I reach back, yank off my hoodie, and toss the fabric to the ground.
“Good.” Gabriel turns to the other fighter. “Raoul, ready?”
The man bounces on the balls of his feet and nods, his dark eyes bright with excitement.
Enjoy it while it lasts, buddy. I’m gonna knock that smug expression right off your face.
I follow Raoul up the steps into the cage. The door closes with a satisfying clink behind me. Gabriel moves to the center, urging us to come forward.
“Okay, meus amigos, this is only sparring. No hard hitting. We’re concentrating on form, speed, and footwork.” He shoots us both a stern glare. “Now is not the time to show-off your hotshot moves.”
Raoul acknowledges Gabriel with a quick salute and a grin, his teeth hidden behind his bright yellow mouth guard.
“Killer?”
My eyes flick back to Gabriel, and to the trainer’s credit, he doesn’t flinch under my scrutiny. Most men do. Waiting another second, I dare him to break eye contact with the monster. When Gabriel stays fast, I finally grunt, nodding my chin toward this man who never wavers.
“Good. Five minutes.” Gabriel pulls out a stopwatch and holds it out. “Go!”
I brace my feet on the mat, letting my opponent strike first. Raoul does exactly what I predicted. He raises his hands, protecting his face, and goes at me with a left hook. As his fist comes toward my face, I tilt back on my left leg and rotate my hips, bringing my right foot across to collide just beneath his exposed ribcage, hitting him slightly above the liver.
Raoul’s punch whiffs past my chin and he collapses to the mat in a loud, whining heap. br />
“Fuck, man! I thought we were sparring,” he groans from the floor. Raoul staggers to his feet with Gabriel’s help. “I think you cracked a rib.”
Pussy. I went easy on him. If I hit him where I wanted to, he would have been unconscious from that liver strike. Idiot showed too much in his warm-up. Karate. Those guys always try for hits to the face and they’re shit at watching for Muay Thai kicks.
Emotionless, I stand with my back against the chain-link cage. Gabriel walks Raoul out, the man clutching his midsection and glaring at me.
“Crazy fucker,” he hisses as he passes by.
The shit talking doesn’t faze me in the least. I know what I am and I’ve been called worse.
After they depart, I figure this session is over so I leave the cage. Maybe I should have let him get a few hits in first so I could at least get a workout of some sort. Ignoring the whispers and stares of the other fighters and employees, I snatch up my hoodie. As I go to shrug it on, I catch sight of her out of the corner of my eye.
Britt is watching me. Our gazes meet and I expect her to flinch or turn away. She doesn’t. Those clear blue eyes stay fixed on mine. When I realize I’m standing with my hoodie halfway on, I yank it over my head, pissed I let this woman get under my skin. A tiny little girl. With cock-sucking lips and a tight round ass and the ability to completely distract me.
I flip up the hood, letting it fall over my brow. The feeling of being watched doesn’t diminish. Another quick peek has me locking eyes again with the petite blonde.
What the fuck? Why isn’t she afraid?
I don’t like this at all. People are supposed to turn away, not study me. If they look too hard, they might see everything I don’t want exposed. And Britt? She’s already closer to exposing me than anyone I’ve ever known, and it’s only been twenty-four hours.
I have a feeling when it comes to Britt, fate has already determined I’m screwed.
* * *
“Come in and sit, Killer. Por favor.” Gabriel directs me to his office by extending his hand.