In the Ring (BOXER Book 1) Page 6

  The statuesque woman killed the flame of interest I thought I’d seen in Michael’s eyes, leaving nothing but black fury in his expression, and an immediate case of limp dick in my pants.

  “I can take care of myself.” I stared Devlin down, barely glancing at the woman bought to keep up appearances.

  When I captured Michael’s unsettled eyes, I held them until he cursed under his breath.

  He stalked away without a backward glance.

  “Suit yourself.” Dev sauntered off with the woman in tow.

  I settled in for a night of Triple D instead of triple-X threesome sex. Yup, it was all about me, Guy Fieri with his big-ass rings . . . and Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives.

  I wondered what Michael was doing as I cleaned off my glasses and stuck them on so I could better visually ingest the grease, the bacon, the burgers on TV.

  He was probably Google-fucking his boyfriend, or whatever that shit was. My stomach curdled, and it wasn’t because blond spiky Guy Fieri just shoved a fistful of cheese-dripping, starch-heavenly, munchies-wonderland into his mouth.

  I went to bed with a boner the size of Nebraska and one man’s name on my lips.

  The next morning, I shouted awake when someone pounded on my door. I tried to shove my morning wood down beneath the sweats I pulled on, but it had other ideas. My hard-on tented up and hit the waistband at my hip. Screw it.

  I opened the door to Michael, who was on wake-up duty. He smelled fresh. He was clean-shaven. He did not help my sweatpants situation.

  His gaze stopped precisely at my thick cock wedged against the thin material.

  “Our flight leaves in two hours, and I’m going to work your ass out so hard when we get to Chicago you won’t be able to sit down for a week without remembering me.”

  Fuck yes. Work my ass out. What are you waiting for?

  I stacked both hands over my stiffie.

  He bit his bottom lip, his cheeks flushing, his eyes suddenly flashing to mine.

  “Did you call him?” Michael asked.

  “Who?”

  “Gideon.”

  “No. Why do you care anyway if I have a friend?”

  Michael leaned in until his breath stuttered across my lips. Minty fresh, of course. “Because he doesn’t want to be your friend, Liam.” He grasped my shoulders, his thumbs digging into the hard muscles. “You really need to pay attention to how you affect people. Leading him on like that—not cool, man.”

  “Excuse me?” Pardon me and come again.

  “That guy Gideon, in the café. He wanted to fuck you, Liam.”

  I reveled in his gorgeous blond anger for a moment while he stood there, seething.

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  Grinned in a lazy way.

  “You know what?” Releasing the tie at my waist, I eased back from Michael. “A lot of people want to fuck me in one way or another. But nobody has. Yet.” I dropped my sweats to my feet, staring at his pumping chest.

  His eyes skimmed low to my big hard bare cock, and he sucked in a harsh breath—a hot as hell sound—that ended in a groan.

  Stepping out of the puddle of sweats at my feet, I shut the door in Michael’s face.

  Let him choke on that.

  Chapter Ten

  Windy City

  NEXT ON MY US tour was a trip to the Windy City in prep for early prefight promotions for my July bout. That one would be the biggest yet. Reggie Jones, my latest opponent, was the only man standing between me and a shot at the Heavyweight Belt.

  Michael was more relaxed. Probably had something to do with being on his home turf where he shared an apartment with boyfriend Wade. For the first time in a year, Mikey stayed off-site. He came to the hotel just long enough to deliver my cardboard-cutout food and met me at the gym to force gallons of sweat from my body during our workouts.

  The only time I managed to let my mind go was when I pumped iron, jumped rope, or jabbed the punching bag so fast it blurred. Michael and I didn’t spar again with quite the same lusty viciousness as in New York City. We also maintained a rigorous separate shower schedule. I lived for the quiet hours of yoga, when we worked our bodies in an entirely different sexier way . . . and the massages.

  With my dietary and workout needs met, Michael scooted off every night to play house with The Boyfriend. That shit made me crazier than a bull during the running in Pamplona. If I could roam the streets, goring people, I would.

  Instead I had to make do with the Saturday night fake-fight and autograph-fest for Reggie Jones and me. Students, vendors, and fans from famous celebs to die-hard street-born boxing junkies packed the UIC Pavilion to the gills. Our sponsors outdid themselves, revving up the marketing machine two months prior to our Madison Square Garden match.

  The two of us stood in the center of the ring, posing for cameras, and trading mock-punches and smack-talk. I couldn’t believe this many people paid good money, and we didn’t even have to fuck up each other’s faces.

  Reggie was as big as an army tank. His skin was black coffee-colored. He stared at me with stone-cold eyes, and his grim expression never wavered as we put on a spectacle for the cheering spectators.

  The crowd ate that shit up.

  It helped that Anya and another long-legged lady came along for the ride. They swung their hair, shimmied their boobs, and caused another round of catcalls.

  This dual dog-and-pony show was good practice. I paid close attention to Reggie’s form and technique. He had a long reach, but I had quicker reflexes, at least in this friendly bout. My attention only wavered from Reggie when I spied Michael smiling at some guy in the front row. Had to be Wade the Weasel.

  I shook myself out of my green-eyed anger long enough to pseudo-spar with Reggie for another five minutes. Working up a decent sweat in the ring, he growled insults about kicking my white Irish ass, and I flung back slurs about how I couldn’t wait to connect a real punch with his ugly mug.

  People laughed; hell, even the usually stern ref chuckled. It was all good times until Mikey winked at wonderful Wade.

  The bell rang. Shouts reverbed throughout the coliseum. Flowers, notes, even freakin’ stuffed animals flew at Reggie and me as we stood shoulder to shoulder in the center of the ring. Confetti and balloons in black, red, green, and orange rained down on the crowd from the vast ceiling above.

  After the air cleared, Reggie looked over at me. A glimmer of humor replaced his gruff expression. “That wasn’t so bad. Wouldn’t mind putting on the circus act in a few years instead of getting my head bashed all the time. After I take you down, of course, Shaughnessy.”

  “In your dreams, Jones. And that’s also where I’m gonna be your worst nightmare.” I jerked my chin at him.

  Michael hopped inside the ring and grabbed my gloved hand. He led me over to Boyfriend with a Death Wish Wade.

  I only dragged my heels a little. Because did I really wanna meet my competition who didn’t even know he was my competition?

  On the way, Anya kissed my cheek.

  Fans sighed, “Awwww.”

  Sean smacked my ass, and Devlin gave me his cha-ching smile.

  Then I was face-to-face with Wade. Talk about killing my mood. He was a ginger with boyish freckles on a rugged face. Awesome. I hated him on sight. Wanted to pound him into the ground then use the Caddy to run right over him.

  “Wade, this is Liam Shaughnessy.” Michael blushed a little. “Well, I guess you know who he is already. Liam, this is my lover, Wade Nichols.”

  A little part of me died inside when he said lover.

  “Pleasure.” I wished I still had a mouthguard in so I didn’t have to lie through my clenched teeth.

  “I’m a huge fan, Liam. It’s nice to finally meet the man Michael talks about all the time.”

  That perked me up some. I shook his hand or, rather, he shook my glove. Then he leaned toward Michael for a kiss.

  Ugh.

  I didn’t stick around to watch any more of their PDAs. I had people to talk to, fans to hug,
a sore heart to hide. Wade was probably nice, smart, funny, good looking. Whatever. Still hated him on sight.

  The party went on for an hour afterward as Reggie and I worked the crowd, large and in living color. My people mingled with his. I signed autographs, scribbling my name on any piece of paper or glossy 8x10 shoved at me. I hugged women, fist-bumped men, posed with eager fans. And totally ignored the happy fucking couple always in the sideline of my vision no matter how hard I tried to tune them out.

  Fuck them. Besides, it was damn cool hanging with folks who’d followed my journey from little known bruiser to The Bonny Bruiser. Hell, there were even teens there. One scrawny kid grabbed my arm then immediately dropped it as if he thought I was gonna take a jab at him.

  “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to touch the hardware,” the skinny boy apologized.

  “It’s cool. I’m saving all my hits for Reggie,” I shouted across to my opponent.

  The kid grinned and shoved his brown hair from his face. “Your tat’s the fucking shit, man. I wish I could be ripped like you.”

  “You hit the gym and stay off the drugs, you could bulk up, too. Or if that’s not your thing, hit the books, bro.” I turned around and flexed for him, making my winged tat beef up.

  When I glanced over my bulging shoulder, Michael’s eyes were locked on me.

  I tried another gym bunny pose and watched his eyes grow huge. By the time I finished chatting with the squirt, Michael was beside me.

  “Come on. Let’s get you cooled down.” He escorted me through the crowd.

  Oh yeah. I sent a smirk back to Wade. Although the cooling down part was not likely.

  Once inside the locker room assigned to me, the adrenaline rush that kept me on my feet for the hours of playing performing monkey wore off. I was suddenly wiped out and bone-weary.

  I showered and changed into my sweats. Hustled into an SUV, I accepted the chipmunk fodder Michael handed me as well as a bottle of water. I chugged two on the way to my hotel. One of the ever-present bodyguards drove while the other remained Secret Service silent.

  In the parking garage, I slid out after the pair of bodyguards.

  “You don’t have to come up,” I said to Michael as he got out. “It wasn’t even a real fight, ya know?”

  He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Really? You look like you’ve been through the wringer anyway.”

  I shrugged.

  He walked toward me. “I think we should keep up the routine we’ve established. The next fight is gonna take all our prep-work, and we shouldn’t slack on anything.” Pressing the elevator button, he added, “Reggie is not fucking around, champ.”

  “That’s good. Neither am I.” Not even in bed. Unfortunately.

  My digs weren’t as grand as the suite in Vegas, but I had a view of the Gold Coast. While I undressed, Michael stared out the windows toward Lake Michigan. The floor-to-ceiling glass captured my naked reflection.

  I lay on the table he’d set up in my room as soon as we’d arrived in Chi-town, and cushioned my head on my arms. I dragged the towel up over my butt while Michael oiled and warmed his hands with sounds better suited to lubing cock for a long, hard ass-fuck than a post-faux-fight massage.

  “Tender anywhere?” His hands slipped from my shoulders to the base of my spine.

  Try my crotch. “All over.”

  “You’re still recovering from Hernandez.”

  “Not to mention you.” I squirmed beneath his touch.

  Michael swatted me on the ass. “I didn’t hurt you that much.”

  If only he knew.

  “And you got in a ton of strikes yourself,” he murmured.

  Under his soothing touch, I got nice and drowsy. Michael hummed as he worked. His fingertips dug into my glutes on top of the towel. I humped up then slammed back down, my erection rubbing against the sheet beneath me.

  “You talked to that kid for a long time tonight. You pick up fans everywhere, don’t you?”

  “He liked my tat.”

  He sent a sharper slap across my ass, and I hissed. That seemed to be a new thing with Mikey. And holy shit, it feels good.

  “I like your tat.” The fingers of both his hands skimmed across the Wing and a Prayer ink covering my back from the dip of my spine up to my shoulders.

  He paid special attention to the shivery spot that centered between my shoulder blades.

  The feel of Michael’s fingers swirling up and down my back grabbed me by the nutsack. But the thought of him going home to Wade burned a hole right through my heart.

  My boner felt wrong all of a sudden. My desire for Michael felt dirty, not because I was queer and lived in fear of it becoming public, but because I didn’t think he had any idea how he affected me.

  If he did, why would he keep doing this to me?

  I clasped his wrist and rolled over.

  His gaze widened on my rock hard shaft lying full and fat and glistening all the way up my belly above the fucking towel I rushed to cover myself with. I threw my forearm over my cock, hoping it would go down.

  “Go be with your boyfriend.” I choked out my words.

  I couldn’t stand to have Michael’s hands on my body while he thought about someone else.

  “You really need a full body rub.” His eyes drifted to mine.

  “Nah, I’m good.” I snagged my robe and slid it on as I stood. “I’ll eat some Wheaties or Wheat Thins or whatever shit you’ve stocked my room with. Take another shower. Hit the sack.”

  He wiped his hands on the towel slung from the pocket of his jeans. “Those are your hot plans for tonight?”

  “Probably nothing like what you’ve got waiting for you.” Why in the hell had I said that?

  “Wade is waiting.”

  My stomach hit a whole new level of low no amount of fast food would ever make better. “I’m sorry ’bout keeping you away from him.”

  “You’re not. You’re not keeping me away from him.”

  Huh?

  “Make sure to work out all those muscles tonight, Liam.”

  The one I wished he referred to plumped immediately back to life.

  Bitter, pissed off, and well on my way to horny, I shut the door behind Michael.

  Time for a Food Network marathon or whacking off, except I couldn’t even fuck my fist anymore because guilt riddled me.

  The other option was reading A Game of Thrones until I nodded off. At least Tyrion the imp made me laugh, and I could message Anya about the book since she was an addict, too. The series had action, intrigue, and a whole lot of brutal plots. Plus, George R.R. Martin’s weird food descriptions were enough to put me off going to an all-night diner. Pigeon pie was probably the kind of nasty stuff Michael wanted to slip into my diet.

  There was also the promise of dragons, and that called to the closet geek in me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cold Cocked

  I MET MICHAEL AT the gym the next afternoon after running around the block a couple thousand times. I tried to settle my nerves, my stomach, my head. I wasn’t sure how I’d react to seeing him after last night, knowing he’d probably spent hours locked in a sweaty embrace with Boyfriend Wade.

  If Michael wore a look of fucked-so-good I was definitely gonna be cranky. Crankier than usual.

  He seemed like his normal self when I caught up to him in the locker room . . . and thank Christ he’d already changed because I didn’t need to see bite marks, love bites, or bruises from fingertips that’d gripped his hips too tight the night before.

  I narrowed my eyes at him, and he smiled pleasantly in return. That bastard boyfriend had no right putting Michael in such a good mood. He better not start whistling next.

  I dropped my bag on the bench, shed my clothes, and switched track pants for gym shorts. Michael turned his back.

  So we’re back to this game. Hide and peek.

  Sifting through my bag, I pulled out a muscle shirt.

  “Leave the shirt off.”

  I arche
d an eyebrow when Michael glanced at me. “Why?”

  “Because I want to study your form.”

  Did he not understand my cock needed no encouragement, no matter how little? And I wanted to study his form, too, preferably in motion, riding me.

  I planted my feet on the floor. “Fine.”

  Michael pivoted around. His gaze drifted over me, starting at my legs and traveling up to my face. Heat flashed across my skin in the wake of his study.

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell you last night, but you handled the crowd really well, Liam.” His warm palm settled on my neck.

  I struggled not to groan when he touched me.

  “How are you feeling today?” he asked.

  Befuddled, bemused, more than a little beat up in all the wrong places, beginning with my heart.

  I opted for a simple, “Kinda tired and used up.”

  “Just yoga, then.”

  “Do Sean and Devlin know you make me do this?” I asked as he dragged me from the locker room to a private studio.

  “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  The very words I lived by.

  As the sound of classical music filled the room, I melted into the slow-motion dance of our two bodies. I didn’t worry about my attraction to Michael, or think about fucking him. I wondered what it would be like making love to him, learning his body with my eyes, my hands, my mouth. I mirrored his smooth motions as we stood in front of each other.

  At one point he moved behind me, helping me into a more difficult pose. I smelled him. I felt him—fully man, rough hands, gentle guidance. He stretched my legs from thigh to calf to ankle.

  An hour later, we finished on the mats, flat on our backs, with our heads turned to each other.

  “Breathe like me,” Michael whispered. “Let it flow through you, let the worries go with each slow exhalation.”

  My chest filled and emptied in time to his as I watched his lips part to emit every long breath. I closed my eyes, concentrating on . . . nothing. When I blinked them open, Michael kneeled behind my head. He leaned over my face. Studying me.

  I rose up, but he pushed me back down.