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31
Bobby
Nine Days To Go. Date Night!
Itake Kit’s manicured hand and lead her into the large limousine I hired for the evening. We’re on our way into the city…
I’m choking in a monkey suit that wasnotmade for fighters my size, but my wife looks fucking stunning, so I’ll wear whatever I’m told to, to be able to stand beside her tonight.
Our whole group will be there tonight, but they can get their own rides. Even my own mom is shit out of luck tonight. She and Jack can get their own car, because I’m with my wife, and I’m not sharing till we get out at the other end.
Once we’re done with this expensive as shit dinner and all the formalities, after Kit’s danced herself to exhaustion, I’m taking her upstairs to our suite, then I’ll show her a whole new level of exhaustion.
I’ll be worshipping at the temple of Catherine in just a few hours.
And I’m not leaving until tomorrow.
Tonight, after the dinner, we’re just Kit and Bobby, newlyweds and hopelessly in love. But after we get home tomorrow, not only do we lose that, but I become Bobby Kincaid, former heavyweight champion going into the final week before a title fight.
I thought the last nine weeks was bad, but now we take everything we did in those two months and cram it into a single week. Like a frenzy of sharks to blood, we’ll be walking into almost a hundred and seventy hours of frenzy before the fight.
Home stretch.
The guys want me to send Kit home. They want me to stay at the gym for the week and zen the fuck out or whatever. Find my headspace. Jon’s talking to me as trainer, but as my brother, he should know better.
No way am I sending her anywhere. And there’s not a fucking chance in hell I’m sleeping in a stinky gym with guys for a week, when my wife is at home in a warm bed only a few miles away.
That’s where my zen is; wherever she is, that’s where I am.
Last time I was this close to the cage, she was in a coma. I don’t miss the symbolism there. From where I’m sitting, I’m taking it as a sign to not lose us, to not lose what we have in the pursuit of a sporting title.
I love my job. I love my sport. I love the competition. And though I lead a quiet life in a small town, I also enjoy the glitz and glamour of the parties I attend once or twice a year.
But I don’t love any of it nearly as much as I love Kit.
I’ll take tonight as a chance to show my wife the glamourous side of my life, to spoil the fuck out of her, and then to fuck her in the poshest hotel money can buy. And when we’re done with that, I’ll make love to her. Slowly. And I’ll touch and taste every single inch of her skin.
As soon as our car pulls out into the street, I turn to her and smile. “Give me your feet, baby.”
Startled from snooping and touching all the buttons, she turns to me with a guilty grin. “Huh?”
“Your feet.” I reach down and bring her foot into my lap and start unclasping the strap on her fire-engine-red heels. “I want your feet.”
“What are you doing?” She looks around guiltily, like it’s a sin to not have her feet on the floor. “Leave my shoe alone. I worked hard to get that damn thing on.”
I chuckle, and as soon as I have the heel off, I press my thumb into the arch of her foot and send her groaning.
She sits back with her eyes closed and smiles. Her red lips match her shoes exactly. Bright, they sparkle and look juicy. The red on her feet and lips is the only color she wears, her white dress makes her look like a sweet angel.
“I want to rub your feet, baby. Let me take care of you.”
She doesn’t open her eyes. “But they’re not even sore, yet.”
“But they will be eventually. I want you to schmooze and be on my arm without pain.”
“On your arm?” she smirks. “Am I your trophy?”
“Yup.”
