Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)(67)
Since I started fighting, I’ve met a lot of girls. They’re all batshit fucking insane. They beg me to marry them – I’ve been proposed to after a fight. I’m there, blood dripping down my face, sweat leaving shiny smears down my body, and this chick is fucking holding a ring out for me, asking if I’ll marry her. She’s even down on one God damn knee.
People are fucking crazy.
The girls ask me all kinds of wild shit. Every fight night at least half a dozen ask me to have their children, to give them a baby.
A baby is something I want. I want to have a family, give my child something that nobody ever gave me.
But not with any of them. I don’t want any of them. I never have, and I never will.
None of them compare to Dee.
Not a single one.
She is all I want.
“My name is Dan Peterson,” the meek man opposite me says, sticking out a hand. I shake it, feel his grip turn to putty, and he seems mesmerized by how my hand just utterly swallows his up.
“You have really big hands,” he blurts out awkwardly.
I pull my hand from his, give him a bored look.
“Mr. Marino said I could interview you.”
“That’s fine,” I say, gesturing at him to just fucking get on with it.
“Are you in a hurry?”
“I need to start pre-fight,” I say evenly.
“You mean your warm-ups?” he asks.
I tilt my head to the side. “Yes, my fucking warm-ups, stretching, etcetera. Pre-fight. This your first fucking time reporting on MMA?”
He grows flustered, his face goes red, his breathing hitches, and his hands shake. “No, I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same proverbial page.”
“We’re not on the same fucking page,” I tell him. “Use your knowledge, or leave. Do your job, or leave. But don’t ask me dumb fucking questions. I don’t have time for this shit. If you are going to ask me what fucking pre-fight is, then you can fuck off.”
“O-okay.”
I’m sitting on a sofa, elbows on my knees, and he’s on a stool opposite me. The lighting is dim. For a few seconds, I see his eyes linger on my body, the bulge of my shoulders, the striations of muscle on my chest and abdomen.
“Hey,” I say, snapping my fingers in front of him. “Focus.”
I can see that he’s terrifically uncomfortable, and I let out a slow breath of air. I can’t believe this guy needs to be babied.
Fucking hell, why did they send someone so incompetent? Why the hell did Glass okay this? He’s starting to live vicariously through my publicity. It’s a little pathetic.
“Peterson, why don’t you tell me who you write for?”
“Um,” he says. “So, you know, I own arguably the most visited underground MMA website in the world, right?”
“I didn’t know,” I tell him. “But now I do. What’s it called?”
“MMA-Underground?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
I look over his shoulder toward the door, praying that any moment now Dee is going to walk in and I’m going to get to end this stupid interview, scoop her up in my arms, kiss her like it’s the last kiss I’ll ever have.
I’m going to see the curve of her hips, those thighs that I want to bite, her sexy, beautiful body, and I’m going to…
God, I can’t get enough of her. I’ve seen, smelled, touched and tasted every gorgeous inch of her hundreds of times, and yet all I want is more. Every time I peel off her clothes, every time I run my hands over her soft skin, I feel like it’s all new again, the first time again.
I can’t imagine ever wanting anyone else.
“Okay, so I’ve got some questions here.” Peterson taps his pad with his pencil. “But first I want to know if there’s anything you consider, um, off-limits?”
“Fighting strategy,” I tell him straight-up. “And my personal life.”
That gives him pause. “All of your personal life?”
“Why don’t you just ask me the questions,” I say. “And if I don’t answer, I don’t answer.”
“And that’s the end of that?”
“You’re damn right it is.”
“Mr. Marino did say you would—”
“I don’t fucking care what Mr. Marino said,” I say. “I’ll answer what I want to. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with me. You want to take it up with me?”
“Okay, okay,” he says, stammering a little. “I don’t have a problem with that. Really. Hey, we’re all entitled to personal privacy, right?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Was that one of the questions you wanted to ask me?”