In the Ring (BOXER Book 1) Read online

  We returned to our sides for the final moments before the bell rang.

  Ding ding ding.

  Showtime. First round, eleven to go. Three minutes each to make Hernandez bleed.

  I bounded out of my corner with a hop, skip, splat right at El León’s ribs. He lumbered back on his feet, leaving his face wide open. Open invitation to go at him with a series of hits to the face and chest.

  Body shots get more points. Jab, hook, and watch him bruise.

  The olive-skinned shit had stamina that drew out our bout from the third to the sixth round. He bounced back like a fury from my initial blast and worked on my ribs first, my face second.

  Between the sixth and seventh rounds, Michael knelt before my stool. He removed my mouthguard and shoved the spit bucket beneath my face. He leaked liquid from the bright green Gatorade bottle into my mouth.

  “Irish blight, huh?”

  “Only to the girls.” I winked with my swollen eye.

  He winced.

  But seriously, I meant that shit for real. Just ask Margaret Morrissey.

  The bell rang, and we were back at it.

  Enrique hugged the ropes while I windmilled away at his midsection. Nothing pretty about this but fuck it. I’d box his brains into mush to win.

  “Break it up. Break it up!” The ref intervened.

  El León wheezed. I stood off in the middle, breathing heavily. The screaming, yelling crowd came across as a muffled roar in my ears. Maybe my gray matter had been Merry Mixered from his earlier hits.

  As my body took the punches, my head swam with pain. I lost track of the rounds. I only hoped to remain clean enough and aggressive enough to control this fight long enough to knock this shit out or score higher with the judges.

  Hernandez advanced on me. Before I spun away he landed another breath-stealer.

  SLAM!

  I took that power punch to my ribs.

  I straightened up from stooping over faster than Hernandez expected. Catching him by surprise with an uppercut, I followed up with left, right, left, right jabs to his torso.

  My body was numb. My vision blurry. My ears tingled, too. Or maybe that was the bell signaling another round over.

  Oh yeah, that was what it was. Time for sixty seconds of relief.

  Putting on a show although my lungs sank somewhere down around my knees, I jogged across the mat. The fans might’ve gone wild. I didn’t have a fucking clue. Sweat made my vision swirly. That probably had something to do with the laceration swelling my eyebrow, too. And hearing? Well, who really needed that anyway?

  I watched Michael as he lifted the stool over the ropes and pushed me onto it.

  Jesus, he is beautiful.

  At least I could still focus on him.

  Every short second in my corner was a lifeline with Michael. Gentle but fast, he squirted/bandaged/put goo on my cuts. Even so, every brush of his fingers caused a bolt of arousal to spread to my groin. It was a good thing I was wrapped tight—my hands in yards of tape as well as my hard-on trying to form inside my cup.

  Instead of full throttle arousal, adrenaline rushed through me, pumping me up.

  Sean screaming in my ear pumped me up even more. “Hold those fists tight. Protect your eye. Whad da fuck you doin’ out there?”

  “Do you think he even speaks English?” I asked Michael.

  Michael’s loud laugh was worth the crack I earned from Sean’s open palm to the back of my head.

  “The spic is weak on his right side. Go for da guts. Go for da glory.” Sean’s voice dropped to a cigar-roughened growl. “Wipe that muthafuckin’ mat with him, Bruiser.”

  Ding, Ding, Ding!

  Funny, that sound used to mean someone was serving dinner in the hood. Now it signaled my time to serve up some El León.

  Primed and ready, I blasted out of my corner. That time I hit Hernandez so fast he got no recovery time. I jacked that motherfucker up the same way I’d do to any dickhead who screwed with one of my sisters.

  My fists blurred and before I knew it, Enrique Hernandez collapsed flat out to take a long rubberized nap beneath me.

  The ref cautioned me to a neutral corner then took over the timekeeper’s knockout countdown.

  With every number he shouted, I got closer and closer to victory.

  Hernandez didn’t move.

  I vibrated in the corner, ready to leap back into action if I had to.

  When the ref finally reached the magic number, I rushed into center ring where he yanked my arm up.

  “THE WINNER IN THIS BOUT BETWEEN THE SPANISH LION AND THE IRISH BLIGHT, LIAM Oooooo’SHAUGHNESSY!”

  Screams, yells, shouts!

  Camera flashes, video cameras, a crowd of mics shoved in my face.

  But I didn’t hear a goddamn word as the seething excitement spun over me.

  Beat up, swollen all over, and sweating like a fucking pig, I grinned at the crowd.

  When Michael vaulted inside the ring and grabbed my face between his hands, I forgot all about the hard hits because a different kind of punch went straight to my heart.

  He kissed me on the goddamn lips, just like that.

  It was too fast, and he was smiling. There was no tongue action, and I couldn’t grip the back of his neck because of the frigging gloves making my hands bigger than cement blocks.

  Dazed when he let me go, I licked my lips. His eyes hooded, he watched the action. Shaking his head and cheering, he grabbed my wrist and raised it high.

  So whatever, Michael had kissed me. It was a big win. That was all. He was happy.

  Everything after that point was flashbulb white with people right in my face until we left the ring. On the way out of the arena, I stopped—half-dead on my feet—to pose for photos with fans for Twitter, Facebook, Instagram.

  I refused to sign titties though, not that I even could with the boxing gloves still on. That didn’t stop the ladies, and when the first breast was bared for me Sean hooted and hollered while Michael’s face closed up. He motioned my new behemoth bodyguards to create a human tunnel all the way to the locker room.

  Michael wore loose nylon pants that clung to his perfect ass, which sloped up and down as he walked in front of me. Apparently winning massive matches agreed with my cock because it nodded to life despite the annoying cup.

  I hit the shower in the private locker room and ignored my freed cock. Michael would do my aftercare next. In my hotel, while I lay bare-assed to the breeze. Just not the kind of aftercare I was after.

  With some soft clothes thrown on—my oldest T-shirt straining at the shoulders and threadbare sweats—I rubbed a towel over my hair.

  Deodorant. Check. Teeth clean. Check. Face that looked like a car wreck . . . well yeah. But in my line of work that couldn’t be helped.

  All that time Michael waited diligently by the locker room door. I couldn’t help but get rattled by the fact he’d seen me naked over and over again, but I’d never seen him in anything less than shorts.

  His face was clam-tight as he opened the door to the hallway. A short walk later we turned into an underground parking lot where a rented gold-rimmed Caddy Escalade waited. He popped the back so I could stow my bag.

  “Chariot?” I asked.

  “I’m pretty sure Devlin thinks this is your winning pussy-ticket.” A smile disappeared from his face when he slammed the gate shut.

  We had few illusions about the motivations of my slick manager, Devlin Finkelstein.

  “Not my face?”

  “Have you looked in the mirror yet?” Michael replied.

  I slid into the back seat. Two beefy dudes took positions one and two in the front. Devlin had insisted on this extra expenditure. The bodyguards plus the flashy rental. He wanted to make a big splash in the big city—even if he hadn’t bothered to attend the fight—and he didn’t mind throwing my cash around to do it.

  “Not my best look?” My face throbbed its own answer.

  Michael inspected me from the other side of the SUV, raking a
hand through his blond curls. “I wouldn’t say that. The look of champion on you? That’s the best look, Liam. And the smell of victory is the sweetest.”

  Chapter Three

  Sexed Up and Massaged Down

  OH GOD. WHY HADN’T I packed jeans in my gym bag? Oh yeah, because I was contused all over my body and looser movement meant less pain. It also meant my package was completely fucking immediately on view if anyone cared to look.

  I swiveled my legs in the opposite direction and folded my hands across my lap. Fuck. FUCK.

  Victory, maybe that was some kind of refined cologne Mikey liked.

  Then again, maybe he liked me.

  My cock definitely liked him. It was hard as a flagpole and trying to burst out of my sweats. I strapped into the seatbelt, making sure it cut off the blood supply to my dick.

  “So now you’re the Bonny Bruiser?”

  “Yeah, that’s a new addition.” I ducked my head.

  “I like it.”

  I glanced at Michael. He stared out his window with a smile on his lips.

  The ebb and flow of traffic on the strip—did I mention The Vegas Strip?—lulled my sore body. Too wiped out to care, I missed all the sights from the famous fountains to the money-pit casinos. I was barely copacetic when the bright beams of the underground parking garage of our luxury hotel slipped beneath my lowered eyelids.

  I managed to work my feet just fine to the elevator. Again I was corralled between meaty men as big as me, and I wondered if they’d be standing guard outside my room all night long, too.

  Which, whaddya know? Had been upgraded from suite to penthouse. I might not rate a freebie room at the MGM Grand yet, but this was a step up.

  The massage table was ready and waiting as well as a bucket of iced sports drinks, a basket of fresh fruit plus a handful of granola bars that usually tasted like reconstituted birdseed. Michael made me eat them. I hated them.

  Slowly slipping out of my clothes, I yawned and stretched. Michael made a big show of fussing with towels and oils, facing away from me.

  I slid facedown on the table and muttered, “I see there are no Cheetos or Whoppers yet again.”

  “Nope. No artificial empty calories for you.” He placed an ice blue drink full of electrolytes in one of my hands and an unwrapped bird-turd bar in the other.

  My stomach growled in rebellion. I snapped the granola in two between my teeth and munched through it.

  “Muscle care first, then I’m making you a shake and ordering up a nice grilled chicken platter with fresh pasta and steamed vegetables on the side.”

  “Hate you,” I grumbled.

  “Love you, too.” He patted my ass that was barely concealed by what had to be little more than a hand towel.

  I watched through half-lowered lids as he retrieved his oils and warmed his hands. He used something with the same spicy scent every time, combining it with arnica to soothe my sore, worked-over body. He moved efficiently, with the limber grace of an athlete.

  Turning, he caught me looking. I’d be damned if I’d lower my gaze. I deserved to feast my eyes on him for a little while at least, in the privacy of my own damn room. The perpetual sun-kissed glow of his skin took on a nice rosy hue the longer I stared. The flush started at his neck and spread across his clean-shaven cheeks, even reaching the tips of his ears the longer I looked.

  My heart pumped faster.

  Michael slid from my line of vision and cleared his throat. “Dev should be here tonight. Not me.”

  Devlin Finkelstein was my manager, agent, and all-around pimp, I meant promoter. Half Irish, half Jewish, he was equal parts street-smart and moolah-oriented. Savvy as only a born and bred hustler could be, his wheeling, dealing, and possible palm-greasing had a lot to do with my success.

  We’d grown up together in the great melting pot of Cincin-nasty’s West Side. I wasn’t sure I’d ever liked him, but he knew what he was doing. He called the shots behind the scenes, and I planted the punches in the ring.

  “You don’t have to stay and take care of me. Besides, I’m pretty sure Dev would hire a group of oriental hentai masseuses to take care of my bone more than my aching body. And that’s not what I need right now.”

  Or ever. The only person I wanted taking care of said boner and bod was Michael.

  I propped up on my elbows. The tiny terrycloth towel on my backside slipped all the way off. From behind me, Michael hissed. I fumbled with the towel to return it to my glutes.

  “Right. Like I’d be anywhere else,” he mumbled.

  When his rough hands slipped onto my skin, it was my turn to hiss. Biting back a moan, I pressed my face through the round hole beneath me, silently mouthing Oh My Goooood.

  And amen.

  As my muscles absorbed the oil, I absorbed the magic of Michael’s kneading fingers. They worked across my traps, over my lats, down my spine. Everyplace he touched tingled. Pain dissolved into marrow-deep relief. Relief melted away to growing arousal. Michael’s knuckles dug into the tightness of my lower back, just above the rise of my ass.

  Michael, like the Archangel. With longish wavy blond hair that would’ve looked girly on most men but on him only accentuated his sculpted face and masculine lips. His built body rivaled mine. I knew because he trained me to hell and back on a daily basis like he was the Devil’s own spawn. I’d jerked off to his face, his smile, his sweaty eight-pack over and over again . . .

  “Good fight, champ,” he murmured.

  My cock swelled like a champ. I stayed on my stomach, twitching when his fingertips worked the fiery tendons on either side of my balls.

  “Not my best.” I shrugged, and the cloth covering my ass slipped again.

  His fingers dipped into my lower spine, inciting immense heat that made me lift my hips to his touch. I quickly dipped back down to hide my reaction.

  “You beat him.”

  “Not cleanly enough.” A disgusted sound rose from my throat. “Ten rounds? That’s the longest fight yet. Should be knocking them out faster.”

  His whisper hit my ear. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

  No fuckin’ kiddin’. My cock rose to my belly beneath me.

  “Roll over.”

  Fuck. “Sure.” One one thousand, two one thousand . . .

  After I made it to ten one thousand, I awkwardly turned around with the scant towel clasped to my groin. It barely covered my shaft. I worried my leaking dick would wet it right through.

  “Your hamstrings are tight.” With his head ducked, Michael’s breath washed across the black pubes curling out from my terrycloth covering.

  No shit, Sherlock. They aren’t the only thing that’s tight. Let’s talk about the man’s ass. You could bounce quarters off those high round globes. It would probably sound really good when my palm smacked against his glutes.

  If his face, lips, or mouth traveled any further south, my cock was going to rear up and slap him on his cheek.

  Either Michael was blind or he was used to clients sporting wood when he worked them over. Without a pause, he made a return pass to the sensitive stretch of skin high on my inner thighs, nearly brushing my swollen nads once again.

  The damn tiny towel draped over my boner shrank.

  My toes curled and my breathing labored as if I was in the middle of a fight. I strained to stay still instead of kicking my pelvis up to his deep, languid touch.

  “You’re still tense. Let’s loosen you up.”

  Ugh, ugh. My brain short-circuited. Did he watch the same fucking locker room porn I did? I wanted him to loosen me up with his tongue rimming me, his fingers gliding inside me.

  “Getting stiff again.” Michael swiped a forearm across his brow. “What is it with you tonight, huh?”

  My cock is about to explode in your face if you lean over me one more time.

  My face turned red. The tips of my ears burned. I sat up abruptly and swung around.

  Michael jumped back.

  Hanging my legs off the side of the table, I
curled my arms over my midsection. “I think I just need a release.”

  He went quiet, and stilled from pumping more oil into his palms. When I dared to look at him, his face was set in stone.

  “You want me to call Dev? Have him send a woman up here?”

  “No! I mean . . . nah, whatever.” Fuck no and hell no. I wanted Michael to stay in my room with me. “I can just”—I waved a hand in front of my groin—“whack it, or whatever.”

  Michael’s eyes flared wide and his lips parted for a moment. “Okay. Yeah. That would be a tension-release.”

  He turned away. While he packed his massage kit, I watched him. His hands shook a bit. Then I was distracted by his ass and the way the strong inverted triangle of his back widened up to his neck where a spreading flush of color appeared.

  I stepped off the table and walked into the bathroom. A robe hung behind the door and I slid the white terrycloth over my shoulders. Tying a loose knot around my waist, I pressed my head against the door. It took a full two minutes for me to calm my cock down, and only after I’d gripped the base in an unforgiving fist.

  When I exited the bathroom, Michael still fiddled with his bag.

  I approached quietly and touched his shoulder. “Maybe I just need some company tonight.”

  “Sure, I’ll let Dev know.” He shrugged away from me.

  Eh? What? “No, man. I mean stay here with me, grab that room service, watch a movie or something.”

  The stunning blond man turned around.

  Something shifted in his features.

  His succulent-looking lips parted. His eyes widened. Was that shock? Hope?

  Fuck, I didn’t know. I needed a damn dictionary to name the new expression sliding across his face.

  The hotel room door burst open while I was still figuring out how to make a move on Michael.

  Chapter Four

  Fucking Cockblocking Finkelstein

  THE SHARP SNICK OF Italian leather loafers sounded on the entryway tiles. I stepped away from Michael as Devlin appeared in front of us.

  He was polished to the nines in a custom-tailored suit, his brown ponytail slicked back. He’d always been a smooth dude growing up, now he was handsome in a way that added bite to his might, if you could ignore the reek of fame-whore rolling off him like the heavy odor of cologne wafting from his collar.