"Fuck!" he roars, driving in to the hilt. I feel him pulsing inside me, hot and deep, marking me from within.
He collapses over me, careful to brace his weight on his forearms. Our breaths mingle, bodies slick with sweat. Slowly, he lifts his head to look at me with wonder.
"You're fucking perfect," he murmurs, brushing tears I didn't know I'd shed from my cheeks. "My perfect little girl."
In this moment, stretched out beneath him on my kitchen table, filled with him in every way possible, I know I'm exactly where I belong. Three years of hiding, of making myself small and invisible, and somehow I've found safety in the arms of the most dangerous man I've ever met.
"Yours," I whisper, and it feels like coming home.
five
. . .
Ryker
I've never broughta woman here before. My gym is my sanctuary—the one place where the world makes perfect sense. Hit or get hit. Win or lose. Simple. But watching Amanda walk beside me toward the entrance, her small hand tucked in mine, I want her to see this part of me. Want her to understand the man who claimed her body last night. Three times. And again this morning on her kitchen table. Fuck, I'm getting hard just thinking about how she screamed for me, called me "Daddy" when she came. Never thought I'd be into that shit, but when those innocent lips form the word, my primal brain goes haywire.
"This is it?" she asks, looking up at the weathered building with "Hammer's MMA" painted in faded letters above the door.
"This is it." I guide her inside with a hand on her lower back, proprietary and protective.
The familiar smells hit me instantly—sweat, leather, disinfectant. The sounds of gloves hitting pads, grunts of exertion, the rhythmic slap of jump ropes hitting the floor. Home, in its own fucked-up way.
"Ryker! The hell you doing here on your day off?" Hammer himself calls from the office doorway. Mid-sixties, scarred face, still built like a tank. The man who took me in when I was a rage-filled teenager with nowhere to go.
"Showing Amanda around," I reply, pulling her slightly closer. Making it clear she's with me.
Hammer's eyebrows shoot up. In the fifteen years he's known me, I've never brought anyone here. He recovers quickly, nodding to Amanda with unexpected gentleness.
"Nice to meet you, little lady. This ugly bastard giving you trouble, you come see me."
Amanda smiles, and the sight does something to my chest. She's fucking radiant, even in simple jeans and a t-shirt. No makeup, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Perfect.
"I'll keep that in mind," she says, and I can tell she likes the old man immediately.
I lead her through the gym, watching her reaction to my world. The place isn't fancy—concrete floors, exposed brick walls, equipment that's functional rather than pretty. But it's real. Authentic. No bullshit.
"This is where you trained?" she asks, trailing her fingers along the edge of the main ring.
"Yeah. Twelve years professional. Retired after one too many concussions." I tap my temple. "Doctor's orders."
Her eyes soften with concern, and she reaches up to touch my face. Right there, in front of everyone. Like I'm something precious. Not the scarred, violent beast I know myself to be.
"Do you miss it?" she asks.
"The fighting? Sometimes. The discipline, the focus." I shrug. "But not the politics. Not the bullshit."
I'm showing her the weight area when I feel it. The change in energy. The hair on the back of my neck stands up before I even turn around.
Vince. One of our up-and-coming fighters. Cocky piece of shit with fast hands and a faster mouth. And right now, his eyes are locked on Amanda's ass.
"Ryker," he acknowledges with a nod, but his gaze slides right back to Amanda. "Who's this?"
I step slightly in front of her, blocking his view. "None of your fucking business."
But Amanda, sweet girl that she is, extends her hand. "I'm Amanda. Nice to meet you."
He takes her hand, holding it a beat too long. "Very nice to meet you. Vince Martinez. You should come watch me fight next weekend. I could get you front row seats."
