In the Ring (BOXER Book 1)

by Rie Warren

  “What’s that?”

  “Making me hotter than I’ve ever been.”

  We stared at each other for one intense moment before we snapped.

  His stubble scraped across my pecs. I nearly choked when he gyrated his hips up for tighter contact between our cocks. I forgot all about choking and was all about groaning when our lips met and our tongues curled into and around each other’s mouths.

  I gasped his name between each kiss. He pulled my briefs all the way off my shaft until they snugged beneath my balls. His hot fingers and rough palms dragged on my cock, suddenly holding it against his. I cried out when Michael slowly fisted us together.

  “I thought we were taking it slow?” I repeated before the very last few of my functioning brain cells stopped working altogether.

  “This is slow. If we were going fast I’d be inside your ass already.” After that husky statement de facto, he slammed his hand down to both our groins, squeezed and pumped once, and we came against each other.

  The scent of hot semen and the feel of thick wetness blasting out of us at the same time wiped my brain clean once and for all. I twitched and jerked and held Michael against me. Once my thighs stopped trembling, quaking, quivering, I lowered to the floor between his spread legs. I nuzzled his hip until he laughed. I scooped the creamy strands of come onto my tongue, sharing them with him slowly, in his mouth.

  An hour later—sixty awesome minutes that included talking, laughing, kissing, and touching, all while naked and tangled around each other—I had to go.

  No way could I stay at Michael’s place. Things were . . . secret. Although, I was already screwed if anyone saw me coming out of his apartment. I looked like I’d been manhandled, mauled, and then some after I got dressed. My shirt was ripped, my jacket wrinkled, my lips swollen from sucking his thick cock and sexy lips.

  Michael circled his arms around me when I hesitated at the door. He was still totally utterly fuckably naked. And fully hard again. Our kisses went on for minutes. I couldn’t get enough of his taste or his touch. Every time our mouths met, heat sizzled throughout my body.

  “Beautiful,” I whispered when our lips nudged apart.

  “Bruiser.”

  “You’ve gotta put some clothes on when you say goodnight to me.” I moaned.

  “Maybe you should just stay.”

  “I can’t.” I stroked his cheek, hoping he understood how much I wanted to.

  “I know.” His eyes darkened as he stepped back and opened the door for me.

  He grabbed my hand before I hit the threshold. He kissed my knuckles and smiled. “Sleep tight, baby.”

  When the door shut between us, I stood outside feeling so completely lost without him surrounding me. I smelled him on my skin and his taste lingered on my tongue. I straightened my shoulders and headed to the stairs, bypassing the elevator. I didn’t want a quick clean getaway.

  I didn’t want to get away at all.

  We’d spent the entire evening and half the night together. Yet I wasn’t one bit satisfied.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A Lover and a Fighter

  A FEW DAYS LATER I had my second encounter with Reggie Jones. There was a buzz going on in the sports community that made this day electric. Before Reggie and I even shook hands, the reporters’ and sportscasters’ usual low hum of murmurs reached ear-thundering levels inside the auditorium hired for our final pre-fight press conference.

  I ignored it all, just as I did during a bout. I was here for one reason only: to size up the competition. And Jesus Christ, if there was one thing I was reminded of again, it was Reggie had sheer fucking body mass. The dude was built like a steamroller. His shoulders almost split the seams of his jacket. Not that I was a lightweight or anything, but Michael was going to have to keep me on the straight and narrow for the next few weeks. No pun intended.

  Reggie had a smoothly shaved black dome of a head. His eyes were flat as the empty eye-sockets of a grim reaper. His severe face and straight lips added to the idea this man was an emotionless fighting machine. But I knew better. A sense of humor lurked inside, the one I’d seen in Chicago.

  Up until the moment we clasped hands, Reggie maintained his stoic mask, and I did likewise. His handshake was as strong as I expected, and I met him grip for grip. Our eyes locked together with dead-on aim. I knew he was searching for my weaknesses while I looked for any show of his true emotion.

  He lowered his voice, the one that had boomed out to his coach seconds before, and jerked his head aside. “So, what do you think about the news?”

  “A dude’s life is a dude’s life. I don’t give two shits where any man sticks his dick as long as it’s consensual. You?”

  “Same.” Cameras flashed all around us.

  “Good.”

  “Let’s get on with it.”

  Agreed.

  We walked around opposite ends of the long table, taking our seats between our teams and calling the press conference to action.

  Throughout the next hour, we rattled off answers we’d both been made to memorize months in advance—at least I knew I had. Devlin took particular glee in our interpersonal once-weekly Q/A sessions where he tried to make me lose my cool, and I wanted to tell him how much I thought he was a tool.

  It turned out his devious brand of training hadn’t been a total waste after all.

  Where did we work out?

  Like either one of us would spill that secret information.

  And how often?

  24/7.

  Our regimes?

  That’s need-to-know only and these bozos don’t need to know. Of course we both gave bullshit palaver answers like jumping rope and running.

  How are we maintaining our weights?

  By eating like motherfucking rodents, obviously.

  And muscle mass?

  Protein, protein, protein . . . Michael’s come.

  That last question made me slant a grin at my trainer even though I kept my smartass answer to myself. Michael stared straight ahead, but I saw the heat spreading across his cheekbones.

  Awesome. And thank you.

  The press kept drilling us, adding in plenty of photo ops. Finally a stiff in a suit at the front of the auditorium stood up and announced, “Time for last questions.”

  Fucking finally.

  A short woman in bright red jumped up and down. “Reggie! You’ve got your second baby on the way. Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl.”

  “Who do you hope she takes after, you or Natalya?”

  “She better take after Dad because the first time she gets felt up I hope she knees the guy in his nads.” He slid a grin my way. “Not that I do dirty boxing.”

  Everyone laughed, me included. I knew the man wasn’t just a bulldozing bag of muscles. That would make it so much more fun when we met in the ring.

  The questions turned to me and the first up was a doozy:

  “How serious is it with you and Anya Navolska, your ringside beauty?”

  Ah, Christ. When Michael’s flat glare landed on me, Devlin’s evil prompts flew out of my head.

  Leaning toward the microphone, I said, “Anya and I are great friends. Nothing more. I can’t help it if TMZ gets a little too zealous every time I go out on the town.”

  “Do you have a lucky lady of the moment?”

  I wanted to dive under the table. I clamped my hands together and willed myself to smile. “A couple.”

  Shocked gasps sped through the large room.

  I held up a hand and chuckled, well aware Michael sat steaming beside me. “Now hold on, folks. My kid sisters. That’s all I meant. Mary-Kate and Saoirse.”

  “Nice save,” Michael murmured as the reporters clapped at my response.

  “Last one, Liam. What do you think about this morning’s news. Jimmy Fontaine, the NFL top pick draftee for the Phoenix Devils, coming out as gay?”

  What the hell? Do I have homo stamped on my forehead? And why does Reg g
et the easy questions?

  “Do you think the Devils are going to become the laughingstock of the NFL with a faggot on their team? Phoenix Faggots?” Some homophobe from the crowd heckled.

  Whoever the loudmouth shit was I wished I could get him in the ring. Rage ripped right through me.

  Leaning both forearms on the table in front of me, I kept my voice calm and steady. “Here’s how I see it. It’s not really any of my business who hooks up with whom. Not yours either.”

  “What if a boxer came out?”

  “What do I look like? A fucking thug?” This shit made me irate, and it showed. “I guess if it was one of my opponents I’d still have to clean house with him, because he was my competition. Not because he was homosexual.”

  “Reggie, how about you?”

  Yeah, drop him into the deep end, too.

  Reg pulled his mike up to his face. “Any other man’s bedroom ain’t no place I want to stick my nose into. Personal biz is personal biz, and coming out is a big deal. Am I going to flame on a guy who had the big danglers to put his shit out there? No. Am I gonna treat him to the same hardcore beat-up in the ring? Yeah. You can just call me Thuggie.” Reggie winked at me.

  The barrage from the reporters started again:

  “So you support gay marriage, Liam?”

  “NoH8?”

  “What are your views on same-sex parents?”

  The shouts rallied out, but Dev stood from his seat. “Thank you all for coming today. I think our fighters are ready for a night off.” His jaw tensed with each grind of his teeth.

  I hustled out as soon as there was breathing room, before Devlin subjected me to a big-time bitch-out sesh. Sean clapped me on the back. Reggie gripped my hand. Cameras blinded me, and finally, I was in the auditorium’s underground tunnels.

  Michael jogged up behind me. He paced my steps through the concrete halls leading to the parking garage. I could tell something was eating him up. He hadn’t said one single word to me and he wouldn’t even make eye contact. In fact, he’d been brewing and stewing all day long.

  I stopped. “What?”

  “If Fontaine is being accepted after coming out . . .”

  A sigh of exasperation left my lips.

  I eyed the concrete corridor in both directions then hushed my voice. “I know we’re both in professional sports, but there’s a big difference between NFL and boxing, man. And did you hear that fuckwit going on about faggots? Besides, I haven’t exactly been seen to be celibate. I mean, I’ve been in magazines and shit with the women Devlin’s thrown at me. I don’t wanna piss people off by making them think I’ve been lying all this time.”

  “But it’s okay to lie about me? To piss me off?” Michael grasped his hair in his hands, a sure sign of frustration.

  “I’m not doing this to piss you off. You know that. I’d give anything to be out. I just can’t risk my chance at the title right now, Michael. Not right now.”

  “I just . . .” He looked at the floor as his hands hung down by his sides. “I’d like to be able to touch you in public.” His eyes flicked up, deep and piercing and pained. “I want to take my boyfriend on a date sometime.”

  A small grin flew across my lips, and I moved closer to him. “Your boyfriend?”

  His eyes suddenly lightened. “My boyfriend. My lover.”

  “Not quite.” I winked. “Not yet.”

  “Hmm. Yeah. I still have that bet to win.”

  I heard someone coming down the corridor, whistling. Going from somewhat playful to immediately paranoid, I stiffened and put some space between Michael and me. His scowl returned. I couldn’t have that. I needed to make him smile again. It was one of the most beautiful things about him.

  As soon as the person cleared the corner, I turned to Michael. “Come on. I’ll make you dinner.”

  That grabbed his attention. “You can cook?”

  “Shit yeah, I can cook. I’m not watching Guy Fieri for nothin’.”

  “I thought you watched him because you think he’s hot.”

  I snorted and raised an eyebrow. “Hot? Not. Cute, maybe. If a big bleached blond porcupine can be called cute.” I put my arm around Michael’s shoulders. “But you know what they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  His half-tilted smile pushed all my horny buttons. “Yeah, I already figured that out about you.”

  “And sexy jockstraps,” I whispered near his ear.

  He prodded me along. “Get moving, you.”

  #

  The next week passed in a series of daylong, body-bruising training sessions and hours long, mind-numbing tactical talks. In between, at night, there were quiet interludes with Michael, and sometimes not so quiet.

  He was a moaner, or maybe that was me.

  One evening we sat on my couch. He flicked through news channels while I buried my face in A Storm of Swords, the third in the A Song of Fire and Ice series.

  “I can’t believe you’re reading that. What is it, like a million pages long?”

  Finger-marking the page, I slowly pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose and listened to Michael’s shuddering inhale. Yeah, the glasses still turned him on.

  “Not that I’m complaining. Sexy hot book nerd,” he mumbled.

  The book drove me nuts. One plot twist turned into another until I thought I’d need to take notes to keep track. I still totally loved the series. Whenever I read, I kept my iPhone handy so I could message Anya every wild and weird detail that caught my attention. Not to mention Mr. Martin had a habit of killing off main characters left, right, and center. The man had some serious balls.

  “What are you talking about?” Closing the book, I turned on the couch toward Michael. “You’re a freakin’ book hoarder.”

  “Hey, them’s fighting words.” He reached over to grab a fistful of my hair, yanking it hard.

  He knew I got off on that. I immediately groaned. Okay, so I was the loud one. Grasping the back of my neck, he pulled me into a lush, toe-curling, spine-tingling kiss. Then he edged back.

  Dirty tease.

  “I like Dan Brown, thrillers, stuff like that. Page-turners. Not long saga yawn-fests.”

  “Can’t help it. I’ve always loved this stuff. Fantasy. LotR—”

  He wrinkled his nose at me.

  I pushed him on the shoulder. “Lord of the Rings, dude. What the fuck?”

  “Sexy book nerd,” he mumbled again, grinning.

  “Terry Pratchett.” I continued.

  “Terry whatchit?”

  “You better watch it,” I threatened. “I guess it’s because I’ve lived a fantasy in my own head for about half my life.”

  Michael stopped teasing me and eased closer. “A fantasy of what?”

  Setting the book aside, I looked down at my hands. “A normal life where I don’t have to hide who I am or what I want.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Totally Owned

  “OH, LIAM.” CRADLING MY face in his hands, Michael kissed me softer and slower than he ever had until I thought maybe I could have that fantasy life. With him.

  On another night, we watched a gay flick from the ’90s—some Scottish film about a repressed gay priest, aptly called Priest. The sexual undertones drove me crazy. Michael sitting beside me with his leg overlapping mine, his hand brushing up and down my thigh, didn’t help matters at all.

  We were taking our relationship one step at a time. It was sweet and wonderful, but the slow build caused some serious sexual tension, and I wasn’t sure how much more my aching cock could endure.

  Getting more and more edgy and horny, I finally paused the movie and stood to adjust myself.

  Michael licked his lips. “Need a hand?”

  I needed more than a damn hand. I needed his mouth or his ass or him in my ass. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t jack off without me,” he called after me.

  I wasn’t going to jerk off at all anymore unless I used his fist to do it. No w
orries about that. In my bedroom, I unearthed a small wrapped package from my dresser. Returning to the living room, I tossed the present to Michael.

  Catching it with athletic ease, he looked up in surprise. “It’s not my birthday.”

  “No shit.”

  “Someone’s grumpy.”

  “Horny.”

  “Oh.” His mouth ovaled just like it would when wrapped around my cock, which it hadn’t been, yet.

  “Open it.”

  Sitting beside him, I strained inside my clothes. I fucking shivered inside my own flesh. And why had I paused the goddamn movie during the sex scene that showed the two guys clenching hands at what had to be the moment of coming?

  I couldn’t not touch Michael. I licked along his strong jawline, running my palm over his chest. I was rewarded when his hands shook as he tried to tear the paper off his present. Eventually, he pulled out the skimpiest pair of white briefs imaginable. I’d bought them the day after he’d made me come for the first time while he sat on his couch in that Property of L.S. jockstrap.

  I was a total romantic like that.

  His fingertips trailing over the silky material, he got a wicked gleam in his eyes. “So you did like the jockstrap.”

  I didn’t like it. I loved it. I’d wanted to gnaw a hole right through it to get at him. I still did.

  “Put ’em on,” I ordered.

  He didn’t say another word, standing to divest his clothes. But he didn’t rip them off in haste, no, he tormented me until my cock jumped and my breath jetted. First, he took off his shirt. It was a button-down. Every slip of button through hole made me think of his finger inside my hole. My ass throbbed in response. With his chest bared after flicking the fabric aside, he rolled his shoulders in such a sensual move I gasped out his name.

  My palms got damp. My mouth dried up. My eyelids didn’t blink for a single second as he pulled off his shorts, revealing nothing but thick, hard cock underneath. A perfect V cut his upper body from shoulders to pelvis, and his broad legs supported the kind of ass that wouldn’t quit when he turned around to draw the boy bikinis up his thighs.