Broken: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance
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Making sure the door was locked, Nicola Hedberg turned to Silas, and narrowed her eyes.
“You’ve got five minutes,” she hissed, hiking up the hem of her Neiman Marcus wrap dress. “You’d better work fast.”
And she turned, presenting her toned, bare ass to him.
Chapter Eight
Silas
Breath catching in his throat, Silas watched as his sponsor’s wife very slowly spread her legs, and presented her bare ass to him.
Shit, he hissed to himself. This, again.
“Come on,” Nicola wiggled her rump invitingly, and Silas felt an uncomfortable swelling in his shorts. “You know how I like it.”
And, infuriatingly, he did.
“Nicola,” Silas growled, checking the clock on the bare, concrete wall. “We don’t have time for this…”
And that’s when Nicola turned her head over her slender shoulder, and locked her icy blue eyes on his.
“If you want to have an apartment to go home to when this fight’s finished,” she snarled, “you better make time. My husband gives you the money. You give me the cock. Now get that big, beautiful dick over here, or I’ll tell Jared to cancel this whole gig and put you out onto the street.”
Fuck, Silas hissed.
He cursed silently to himself. His ‘sponsorship’ by Jared Hedberg came at more of a cost than just listening to the loud-mouthed bastard scream and rant at him. He also had to pay his share to Nicola.
Nicola, Jared’s trophy wife, had lobbied hard for her husband to continue sponsoring Silas’ career for only one particular reason.
Because she was fucking him behind Jared’s back.
Silas knew it was wrong, and unethical. It made him feel like a gigolo, ‘servicing’ this attractive woman whenever she demanded it. But it had got him to America, and onto the fight circuit, and it kept the rent paid on his apartment.
Not to mention, to Silas’ intense shame, the sight of Nicola’s tanned, toned ass couldn’t help but turn him on.
In fact, despite his anger and frustration at his situation, the big, Spanish fighter was already as hard as a rock inside his shorts.
“Okay, then,” Silas snarled, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. “If that’s what the lady demands, that’s what she gets.”
And, with that, he stepped up behind Nicola, kicked apart her legs, and wrestled his already-hard cock into position between her legs.
With one powerful thrust, he was inside her – and Nicola moaned in hot, needy pleasure.
Chapter Nine
Silas
Say what you want, but sometimes there’s nothing as satisfying as a ‘hate fuck.’
Grabbing a fistful of Nicola’s long, expensively-highlighted hair, Silas yanked her head back, and thrust inside his sponsor’s wife with an angry snarl.
“Oh, fuuuuck,” Nicola groaned, as she felt herself stretched and filled by Silas’ thick, hard cock.
“Is this what you want, puta?” Silas growled, thrusting hard inside her. “The nice, hard fucking your husband can’t give you?”
She laughed wickedly, and that made Silas’ cock throb, and his anger burn.
“Oh, I love getting fucked by you, you big stud,” she purred, looking over her slender shoulder as Silas’ pounded her. “It makes me feel so naughty, sitting next to Jared, feeling you dribble out of me.”
God, the look in her eyes. It was so wicked, and evil. Her bright eyes literally burned as she stared over her shoulder at her muscular, Spanish lover.
Silas knew he didn’t have long, so he simply snarled at her, and kept fucking. He looked down, at the slender curve of her back, and the tanned globes of her toned ass. It was sexy as fuck, seeing his thick dick slide in and out of her glistening wetness.
“Oh, fuck, that’s it,” Nicola moaned, lowering one hand from the wall, and reaching between her legs. “Keep fucking me… I’m nearly there…”
And then, rubbing her clitoris furiously, Nicola climaxed wetly.
Silas felt her body shudder, and her pussy tighten, and he groaned in release himself; as his big cock swelled inside of her.
The Spaniard emptied himself into her clenching wetness.
“Oh, fuuuck,” Nicola groaned, as she felt herself filled with his hot wetness. “Oh, God, baby. I can feel it…”
And then it was over.
Silas took a staggering step back, and his still-hard cock slithered from inside her. Nicola giggled, as she clamped a hand between her legs to stop the gush of his hot wetness running down her thighs.
“Mmmm,” her eyes flashed, as she looked over at her panting, sweaty lover. “I’m going to be feeling that inside me all night, tonight.” She winked wickedly. “Maybe I’ll have Jared kiss it when we get back to the hotel room. I love making him go down on me after you’ve fucked me.”
Silas narrowed his eyes, as he tucked his drained cock back into his shorts.
“You’re a sick bitch, Nicola,” he growled.
She licked her lips mischievously.
“Maybe,” the blond admitted, yanking down the hem of her dress, “but you know part of you loves it.”
And, as she straightened up and smoothed down her dress, Silas glared at her with a mixture of hatred and anger.
Yes, part of him loved fucking this devious, manipulative blond. But it was a part of himself he hated about himself.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Somebody was hammering on the door of the dressing room.
“You’ve got one minute, Mr. Batras,” somebody shouted through the door.
Nicola looked over and winked at Silas.
“Better get out there, stud,” she purred. “Go make Jared proud.” And then, turning on her heel, the freshly-fucked wife turned and slipped out through the dressing room door.
Silas watched it click shut behind her.
He felt drained. Ashamed. And eager as fuck to take his frustration out on that evening’s opponent.
Chapter Ten
Lyssa
If there was one small mercy to Lyssa’s humiliating ‘interview’ with Silas Batras, it was that anger had replaced sadness in her heart.
Snarling, the attractive reporter plonked herself down in the press seats, at the edge of the fight octagon, and whipped out her notepad, ready to eviscerate the rude, arrogant Spanish jackass.
Ever since her three-way affair with Travis Oates and Nikolai Bukov had started, Lyssa had been focused on the heavyweight division of the MMA league – currently the most exciting and competitive weight class. But now she was set to put the super-heavyweights to rights, with some barbed prose aimed squarely in Batras’ direction.
And then, to add fuel to her angry fire, Lyssa looked across the octagon to where the sponsors and executives sat.
Nicola Hedberg – the bitchy woman who’d kicked her out of the dressing room – was weaving through the crowd towards her seat at the edge of the octagon.
She had a slightly bow-legged gait to her – not enough for the average person to notice, but a clue that told Lyssa exactly what kind of ‘relationship’ she had with her husband’s sponsored fighter.
“Whore,” Lyssa snarled, under her breath. She’d probably slipped into Batras’ dressing room before a fight for a quickie. To her shame, Lyssa had done the same thing once or twice with both Nikolai and Travis. And, one time, both.
But there wasn’t time to focus on that. The crowd erupted into cheers as the announcer introduced the next fight – and that was the evening’s hotly-anticipated super-heavyweight bout.
Lyssa settled back, and paid attention.
“In this corner,” the announcer roared over the speakers, “fighting out of Kraków, Poland, is newcomer Wlodek “The Bear” Winogrodzki.”
Swaggering out towards to octagon came the new fighter – a massive beast of a man. With enormous shoulders, and a stocky body, Wlodek looked just like ‘The Bear’ that they’d nicknamed him – right down to a shaggy brown beard that reached almost to his chest.
“Wlodek! Wlodek!”
Then the announcer spoke again:
“And in this corner, hailing from Logroño, Spain, is three-time Championship contender Silas ‘El Torro’ Batras!”
And to their credit, the crowd roared for him, too.
Snarling like a Spanish bull, the tanned, muscular hulk of Silas Batras emerged onto the runway and he strode purposefully towards the octagon, eyes narrowed and focused.
Lyssa hated to admit it, but she felt a little thrill when she saw him. Silas was the very definition of ‘tall, dark and handsome.’ While his opponent, Wlodek, was a physically-intimidating man, Silas was downright sexy.
Her anger at Nicola Heberg was replaced by a flash of jealously. A quick, rough tussle with Silas in his changing room would have been just the thing to improve her mood.
Lyssa didn’t have much time to think about it, though. As soon as that hot, sexy thought flitted through her mind, the announcer started talking again – lining up the first round.
Chapter Eleven
Silas
For the first time that day, Silas felt at peace.
As he stepped, barefoot, into the octagon, he felt at home. Here, it was just him against the world. His strength. His skill. No need to worry about sponsors, or reporters, or anything except the fight ahead.
The big, Spanish fighter took his place in the octagon, and looked across the canvas towards where Wlodek Winogrodzki was standing.
Damn, the guy really was a “bear.” Over 300lbs of lumbering muscle and gut – right down to the two beady, brown eyes peering out from above his long, straggly beard.
The referee brought the two fighters into the center of the octagon, and the two of them pounded gloves. Silas found himself looking up at his opponent – dwarfed for one of the very few times in his life.
But he wasn’t scared.
Silas had too much to prove to be scared.
The buzzer sounded, and the two fighters stepped back. The fight was on.
Chapter Twelve
Silas
Silas began the first round cautiously – circling around Winogrodzki and measuring his big opponent’s moves.
Wlodek was a towering beast of a man. A former world-class strongman in Poland, his shoulders and arms were as thick as tractor tires, and his big hands looked like they could crush boulders effortlessly.
But strong isn’t everything – and Silas knew that Wlodek’s focus on power-lifting and weight-training gave him an advantage.
Darting forward, the powerful Spaniard opened the fight up with some heavy punches – landing two swings on either side of Wlodek’s head before the Polish fighter could lift his arms to defend himself.
That gave Silas the space to throw a third punch, which landed with a satisfying ‘thwack’ right in Wlodek’s ribcage. The Polish fighter grunted in pain, and staggered back.
Silas retreated too – darting from one foot to the other, measuring how much damage he’d done.
It didn’t look like a lot. With an angry snarl, Winogrodzki shook off the ringing in his ears, and lumbered towards Silas. He swung a couple of punches, which the Spaniard easily ducked away from, and then reached out a clawing hand to try and grab him directly.
Shit! As Silas staggered away from Wlodek’s outstretched hand, he realized how dangerous it would be to let the Polish fighter actually tackle him.
He was slow, but strong. If he managed to get Silas to the ground? He could break him like a twig.
With a growl, Silas ducked out of reach, and circled around his towering opponent – trying to figure out his winning strategy.
Chapter Thirteen
Lyssa
Down in the press seats, Lyssa Meadows looked on, entranced.
Wow, what a fight! Just seconds into the first round, Silas had already landed some punishing hits that would have KO’d anybody in a lower weight class.
But that big, Polish bastard? He just kept lumbering on.
Lyssa frantically took notes, trying to capture every second of this first round. She wanted to communicate the disparity between the two fighters – how one was quick, and accurate, but the other was strong and unstoppable. It was almost like something out of those Marvel movies; with the Hulk squaring off against Captain America, or Thor.
She’d expected this, of course. Super-heavyweight bouts were rare, but always exciting. Pretty much any human on the planet had the capacity to bulk up and train to heavyweight level. It took a real genetic gift to be big enough to compete against opponents who were 265lbs or higher.
What Lyssa hadn’t expected was to be rooting for Silas. After that humiliating interview with him, she’d wanted to watch the arrogant Spanish bastard get his ass beat.
But now? Watching him dance lithely from one foot to another, with a grace belying his enormous size, she was hooked.
Silas was definitely the underdog in this matchup – and Lyssa had always had a thing for the underdog.
The reporter couldn’t take her eyes away as she watched the rest of the round play out.
There were no definitive hits – nothing to really mark one fighter as better placed than the other. But as the buzzer sounded and the two super-heavyweights staggered back to their corners, Lyssa knew that Silas Batras would really have a fight on his hands.
Chapter Fourteen
Silas
Sweat gushed down Silas’ back as he staggered off his stool, ready for round two.
In contrast, the lumbering Winogrodzki still looked fresh, and eager.
Damn, Silas warned himself. He could be in trouble here. While he was undeniably faster than the big Polish fighter, it burned a lot of calories, ducking and diving.
He needed to bring the big man down fast – before his stamina got burned up.
The buzzer rang, and the second round began.
Once again, Silas initiated the assault on his big opponent – swinging his fists, and throwing punch after punch with the force of an express train behind each one.
Blam! Wlodek’s head shifted, as Silas connected a punch squarely with temple.
Thwack! The barrel-like chest of Winogrodzki rippled, as Silas hit it with a swing that would have broken most people’s ribs.
Smack! The big Polish fighter’s head bounced back, as Silas hit him squarely on the nose.
And yet, unbelievably, the big Polish bastard was still standing!
And that’s when things went wrong.
Arms aching from those powerful punches, and sweat pouring down his muscular back, Silas was just a half-second too slow to retreat.
As he tried to stagger back, Wlodek stretched out both his monstrous arms and hooked onto the Spaniard’s shoulders.
Silas struggled, as the Polish fighter wrenched him into a bear-hug, crushing him with his massive arms. And then, twisting his weight around, Wlodek made to bring Silas toppling to the canvas beneath them.
And that’s when Silas made his mistake.
Even as he did it – bending and twisting his torso to wriggle out of Wlodek’s grip – Silas knew it was a risky move.
His back wasn’t meant to bend like that. For just a second there, as he was stuck in that twisted, pretzel-like position, disaster loitered on the sidelines…
…and then struck.
It should have been a clean escape. Silas should have been able to twist himself free – to stagger back, ready to regroup.
But he timed that back-twisting escape just as Winogrodzki timed his crush-down to the canvas – and, as such, instead of wriggling free, he had 300lbs of Polish super-heavyweight come crashing down on him instead.
There was a sharp-sounding ‘snap’ and Silas cried out in pain as he was literally bent in half.
Wlodek’s massive bulk folded Silas like a playing card, and when he finally lande
d limply on the mats, the Spaniard’s spine was screaming in torment.
It took less than a second for the referee to come sweeping in, calling the fight. But that second – with Wlodek’s bulk crushing his broken body to the canvas – was the longest of Silas’ life.
The crowd fell into a hushed silence, as Wlodek “The Bear” Winogrodzki clambered stiffly off Silas’ broken, sprawled out body.
The Spaniard lay twisted on the canvas, switching and groaning.
“M-my legs,” he stammered, as he sobbed in pain. “I can’t feel my legs…”
Chapter Fifteen
Lyssa
In all her years covering sports, Lyssa Meadows had never seen anything as horrific.
Two seconds earlier, she’d been watching two magnificently powerful men dance in the octagon. Now one of them lay broken on the canvas, twitching and squirming.
Jesus. That looked bad.
She was reaching into her handbag almost as soon as it had happened, frantically calling her editor.
He’d be pissed, of course. He was at home now, with his wife and kids. But this was important – front page of the sports section, if she played her cards right.
And Lyssa did. When her editor finally answered the phone, he listened to her story, and snapped: “Get your ass to the hospital. I’ll write off whatever you need – cab fare, dinner. Just make sure we’ve got a scoop on that story.”
And before Silas Batras had even been stretchered out of the octagon, Lyssa was grabbing her coat and bag, and heading towards the exit.
* * *
She felt horrible, of course. A man had nearly died out in that octagon – perhaps been crippled.
But as she hailed a cab, and directed the driver to roll around to the back of the stadium, she knew she had to do this. The career of many a good journalist had been made on getting just one scoop – that one front-page story that forever cemented their journalistic credibility.