Her breath was sweet. Her lips full, plump, and pink, as they hovered near mine.
Out of nowhere, she craned her neck forward and kissed me.
The kiss was slow. Deep. Meaningful. The touch of her tongue came with a sexy whimper, stealing all the air from my lungs.
“I—I’m sorry,” she eventually apologized. “I couldn’t help myself.”
Staring up at me, Peyton shrugged coyly.
“I had a sudden urge to kiss my boyfriend.”
God, she was so fuckingbeautiful!So soft, and yet tough. So seemingly helpless, and yet—
The knee connected with my balls, just as my brain was registering what happened. Twisting her body like a cat being forced into a bathtub, Peyton reversed positions, and was on me in less than a second.
“Fuck…” I hissed. Wincing hard, I braced for the delayed, but inevitable pain
“Relax, I barely grazed them.”
She was the one straddling me now, flexing those wicked thighs as she pinned my wrists. Her expression was pure, unbridled triumph.
“No fair fights, right?” she winked.
The pain didn’t come. Maybe she did graze them.
“That was dirty.”
“Groin stuff. You said it yourself.”
“Good girl,” I grinned.
Peyton patted my chest, leapt to her feet, and extended a slender arm. She had to lean all her weight into it, but she was able to pull me up.
“So… who taughtyouhow to fight?”
“Life,” I grunted.
“No, seriously. You weren’t in the military, like Colson. But when it comes to something like this...”
“I’ve been fighting most of my life,” I told her. “One day I did something… to someone who seriously deserved it. I hurt him bad, though. Real bad.”
I thought briefly back to the night in the alley. As far as memories went, it wasn’t a place I liked to go.
“After that I realized I might have a problem,” I admitted slowly. “It wasn’t just anger, it was pent-up rage. Bad shit. It fucked with my head; so much, that I started going for long walks through bad neighborhoods. Just hoping someone would give me a reason to let off some steam.”
Peyton stood there quietly, as the wind played with her hair. Not talking or judging, just listening.
My respect for her deepened.
“One night I looked up and realized I was standing in front of an MMA studio,” I went on. “I wandered inside, and two guys were beating the shit out of each other. But they were doing it legally, and they shook hands afterward. I realized right then and there, that was my calling.”
More memories flooded back; the workouts, thetraining, the cathartic joy of being able to vent my anger in constructive, positive directions. The exultation I felt, every time I won. The excitement of just being a part of something.
“My win rate was good,” I told her. “Better than most. I didn’t exactly have the finesse of the higher-level fighters, but what I lacked in technical ability I made up with brute force and sheer ferocity.”
I paused, bitterly. “That ended up being a problem, though. I fought too hard, too often. Lost myself in the moment, and went past the bell. I got blacklisted from all the bigger circuits as beingtooviolent. My reputation ruined me, and put me back to square one.”
I looked down and sighed. “The MMA thing dead-ended. But I still fought. Turns out, if you can hit hard enough, and stay on your feet? People will pay to watch you fight.”
