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When Rachael tells me her plan, I’m tempted to say no. I’m going to embarrass myself, but the truth is, I want to speak to him. I want to learn more about him. Heck, I just want to benearhim. It’s like this strange, hungry pull inside me, telling me to be with him.
“Can you imagine?” Rachael goes on. “If you managed to get a date with him? Ryan would freak. It would definitely wipe the douche smirk off his asshat face. Or I can try if you want.”
“No,” I say quickly, harshly. The idea of Rachael touching him makes me sick. “I’ll…” I almost shudder. Am I seriously going to do this? “I’ll talk to him.”
Before I can chicken out, I stand up.
CHAPTERTWO
Duke
I sit at the far end of the bar, swiping on my cell phone, glancing up at the TV every so often as the prelims to an MMA event get started. My body is sore from a long day at the gym, teaching classes, and then sparring with a few of the boys.Boys. They’re all in their mid-twenties, but at forty-two, I can feel the difference. I’m still quicker and stronger. My skills make up for their relative youth, but it’s one hell of a workout.
Sipping my neat whiskey, I swipe on my phone some more. I wonder if it’s normal to feel this numb. The dating app shows me so-called beautiful woman after so-called beautiful woman. Some of them wear bikinis in their photos, but I feel nothing. I don’t care. Maybe there’s a hole in me—a shotgun blast of don’t-give-a-shit where my heart should be.
I turn when the woman approaches the bar. Then, quickly, I lock my phone screen. For some reason, I don’t want her to see the dating app. I don’t want her to imagine me with anybody else. I can’t imagineherwith anybody else.
She’s on the shorter side, with shoulder-length brown hair, full, flowing. She wears jeans and a sparkly top, showing just a hint of cleavage, her breasts full, her figure fuller with wide hips. Man, I’m getting hard just sitting next to her. I’d savage her. I’d take her over and over if I let myself. She’s mine.
I need to relax, big time. I look at the TV and try to get my breathing under control. I want to kiss her. Hold her. Bend her over and fuck her like the ruthless beast she’s turning me into.
“Have you bet money on the fight?” she says quietly. She sounds shy. It makes her even cuter.
I look at her and shake my head. It’s difficult to lookrightat her. There’s too much hunger in me trying to bust out. My balls swell as if telling me that the only mission in my life now is to drive deep inside her. Explode into her. Fill her body with my seed.
“Oh,” she says after a pause. “I’ll… uh, leave you to it.”
No. She can’t go. I don’t care if she’s far younger than me. “I don’t usually bet on fights. I watch them for the technique and the entertainment.”
“Are you a fighter, then?” she asks.
“Once upon a time,” I tell her. “I was a pro for years. Now, I have my own gym.”
“That’s awesome.”
“I’m Duke, by the way,” I tell her, offering my hand.
She swallows and offersherhand. She really does seem so adorably nervous. “I’m Molly.”
When I take her hand, I almost lose it right there. Her warmth, the pressure in her touch, the way she looks up at me with that subtle dark makeup around her eyes, highlighting her bright, eager green eyes. I hold her hand longer than I probably need to.
Finally, I let her go. It feels like losing something. Some vital connection. What the hell is happening to me?
“What do you do, Molly?” I ask.
“I’m in college,” she murmurs. “Next year will be my last. I’m going to South Korea this summer and teaching English as a foreign language. Sorry. You didn’t ask for my whole life story.”
When she turns away, I almost reach over, gently touch her face, and guide her gaze back to mine. The embarrassment she feels is damn wrong. She never has to be embarrassed or ashamed. Not with me. “I’m interested. What are you studying?”
The worldcollegehammers into my mind. I’m at least twice her age. Yet when she tells me she’s studying English literature and starts excitedly talking about her latest assignment, I realize I don’t care. I don’t care if people are looking. If they think I’m a creep. I only care about Molly.
“It sounds boring,” she goes on. “A line-by-line dissection of an epic poem, but it was alotof work. I’m glad it’s over but sort of sad, too.”
“Sad, how?” I ask.
Her cheeks are a deep shade of red. She keeps glancing at the bar, behind it, or the TV, anywhere but in my eyes. Meanwhile, I’m staring at her like I want to learn everything about her. Like I want to decode her entire personality.
“I don’t know…” She bites her lip. Am I making her that nervous? “There’s a special feeling that comes with working on a project. It’s like everything else stops mattering for a while.”
