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Jesus, I need to get a grip. I do not likeRoger Smith, a bland name for a man who’s far from it. “My dad will kill you if you even think about raising a hand to me.” I punch him on his arse and the back of his tree-trunk thighs. The fucker doesn’t even flinch.
“Your father has given me free rein to do whatever the fuck I want…” he warns, his voice dropping an octave or two and sounding far more sexy than it has any right to. “...Inside the ring.”
“Fuck that, you moron! Put me down!”
He chuckles, clearing his throat, then drops me unceremoniously onto the stool situated in the corner of the ring. I let out a whoosh of air from the impact and immediately stand, not liking, or perhaps liking too much, the fact that he’s towering over me all sweaty and big and fucking sexy as sin. He’s tall. Six foot five to my five foot seven. A fucking giant, no…Beast.
“Urgh, you’re an arsehole!” I say, punching him as hard as I can on the nearest bodily part which happens to be his very wide, abnormally firm, stomach. I mean there’s six packs and then there’ssix packs, and his happens to be accompanied with a V muscle that turns all women’s insides liquid. Except mine, because once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, and every fighter at Tales has one.
So I’m immune.
Except his muscles are covered in tattoos, and my immunity stops there. Tattoos are my weak spot and I happen to find them insanely attractive. My eyes rove over his bare chest, all slick with sweat as I drink in the familiar geometric patterns that criss-cross his chest and stomach, and the single eye staring at me from his right pec. Not to mention the beautifully detailed side profile of a lion, its gaze focusing on his navel. God, his tattoos are fucking epic…
“Are you gaping at my dick?” Beast asks, chuckling.
“What? No!” I reply, quickly lifting my gaze and rubbing at my sweaty,flushedcheeks.
“Then don’t be staring like that, Princess. You might give a man the wrong impression,” he says, placing his large, bear-sized hands on my shoulders. “Sit!”
I sit.
Dropping to his knees before me, he reaches for my gloved hands and starts untying them. His thick fingers are nimble and mesmerising despite their size, and don't even get me started on his hands with his wide palms, the thick wrists, the veins and the tattoos. You know what they say about a man and his hands… Wait, perhaps it’s the feet? Fuck, whatever. Either way, big hands, big dick.
“I don’t fancy you, Roger, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I say, lying through my teeth. “Your physique might turn the average bimbo with fewer brain cells than a gnat on, but not me. I prefer my men with more upstairs. Know what I mean?”
Beast scoffs and I can’t help but smile at the way he yanks at the string of my gloves. “Are we back to that Hudson prick again? Jumped-up shit who thinks he’s gonna run the world, that one. More balls than a rugby team playing at Twickenham stadium, but a lot less sense.”
“Hud issmart,” I counter. “Don’t underestimate him.”
“Princess, I make a habit of never underestimating anyone because Iamsmart.”
“Says the man who has ride or die tattooed on his lower stomach. Yeah, smart. More like fuckingobvious,” I scoff. “Is that the male equivalent of a tramp stamp?”
Beast’s fingers still. “No, just the fucking truth. I’m a ride or die kinda man, both in life and in the bedroom. Any woman I invite into my bed can vouch for that,” he says, and I have to grit my teeth and lock down the urge to squirm. I do not want to give him the satisfaction.
“Well, whatever. I prefer the smarts. Besides, Hudson’s about a thousand times more attractive than you…” And whilst that’s not strictly true as they’re both equally attractive, just in different ways, he doesn’t need to know that.
Beast snorts, back to concentrating on what he’s doing. “If you’re trying to offend me, don’t bother, Princess. I’m not interested in the slightest. You’re my boss’s daughter,underageand entirely off fucking limits. So let’s just get back to being cool, okay?”
“What, as opposed to hot? Are you saying I’mhot, Roger? Do you want a nice tight piece of underage arse?” I don’t know why I push him like this, but I can’t seem to help myself. Not to mention the fact I’ll be eighteen in a couple of months and officially classified as an adult, so there’s that. This time he does look up, and I swallow hard at the look of anger in his eyes.
“Even if you were of fucking age, I still wouldn’t touch you.”
“You do realise that the age of consent in the UK is sixteen, right?” I say, taunting him.
“I don’t give a fuck what the law says. My age of consent is firmly fixed at twenty, got it?”
“Why twenty? You’re also considered an adult at eighteen in this country.”
“Just because…” he replies, refusing to explain. “Besides, you’re not my type.”
Removing my gloves, his fingers curling around my wrists, all warm and firm and, surprisingly, soft. For a couple of seconds he just stares at the spot where our skin touches and I wonder if he feels it too, that electric current humming between us.
“No?” I question softly, my heart racing in my chest as he leans in close. I’m pretty sure he can feel my pulse racing under his fingers.
“No,” he repeats, whispering in my ear. “I like my women with a bit of meat on their bones. Come back to me when you’ve turned into one, yeah?” I suck in an offended breath and he laughs, letting me go. “I’ll call you a cab,” he says, standing abruptly.
“I thoughtyouwere taking me home?”
