Drake

by Tarin Lex

  Drake

  “Fit to Love”

  Book 3

  By Tarin Lex

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2020 by Tarin Lex.

  No part of this work may be transmitted or reproduced by any means without the express written permission of the author/publisher.

  Published by Tarin Lex.

  “Drake” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and events are used in a fictitious manner.

  Cover by DesignRans.

  Drake: Fit to Love Book 3

  Alpha Fighter, Curvy Girl, Friends to Lovers Fake Relationship

  The one with the underdog.

  Drake is a short, sweet & steamy romance. NO cliffhangers. NO cheating. This is a standalone short story part of the Fit to Love MMA fighter romance series.

  Tarin writes short, sexy, romantic stories. She lives in the Big City but she’s a country girl at heart. Tarin’s a sucker for the misunderstood Bad Boy—preferably of the hardworking, tattooed, blue-collar variety—and the sweet, curvy women who tame them.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Epilogue

  One

  Harlow

  Poor Drake is useless in the kitchen, and for a man with such a lean body type, he’s got the appetite of a boar. So every Wednesday and Sunday night, I come over to cook for him. That is, unless one of us has a “real” date. A rarity for me. Typical, for him.

  I’m headed to his house now. I love to cook, and he’s my best guy friend who loves to eat. We’re a match made in platonic heaven. It helps that he keeps the wine in stock, and lets me use his credit card for the grocery run.

  I knock once and Drake opens the door for me.

  Even as he cheerfully says, “Hey, you,” there’s some kind of sadness on his face.

  “Hey, stud. Hungry?”

  “Always.”

  “I brought ingredients to make your favorite, lasagna Bolognese.”

  “You spoil me,” he says. He gives my cheek a quick peck. “You’re the best.”

  “Aw.” I tilt my head, examining his gloomy expression. “That’s the sweetest thing someone’s ever said to me while looking like they want to slit their wrists.”

  “Eh.” He shrugs. “I do mean it though.”

  I get set up in the kitchen while Drake pours wine. He sits at the island, keeping me company while I cook.

  “So, why the long face? You’re usually only this grumpy when you’re cutting weight. If you are, you didn’t tell me, and I should probably make something else for dinner.”

  “I’m not cutting weight. I just got this stupid invitation.”

  “Not an ex-girlfriend’s wedding?”

  “That’d be more fun than this.”

  “Eeshk. What’s it for?”

  “MMA awards ceremony. But might as well call it a Fit to Fight sanctioned event because most of the nominees are Fit to Fighters. It’s always so…hoity-toity,” Drake laments. “Black tie, open bar—”

  “Sounds miserable,” I add sarcastically.

  “I got nominated.”

  “Dread-ful!”

  “Pfft.” He shakes his head. “I got nominated for Luckiest #1-Ranked Fighter.”

  “Really? That’s a weird category to get nominated for.”

  “Because they made it up, Har. For me. It’s a joke.”

  Yikes. I try to be positive anyway. “How do you know that, though?”

  “Cuz I’m the only nominee.” Yeah I’d say that’s pretty conclusive evidence. He rakes his fingers through his buzzcut and says through gritted teeth, “I’ve won that same belt twice! I’m still the number-one guy in my weight class! But I’m a laughing stock. God I could kill Chico for throwing that kick. And Pais, for jerkin’ off during the fight.”

  That’s one reason they call him lucky. Or rather, two reasons. Drake won his first championship belt after his opponent, Chico, threw a low kick and Drake checked it, injuring Chico’s ankle and foot. Not a satisfying way to win. It was his first belt and Drake didn’t keep it for long—he lost his very next bout, to Pais. His first title defense, and he lost.

  Later that year Drake and Pais had a rematch and Pais was so confident that he started acting a fool, making comical faces and big goofy gestures, trying to get in Drake’s head. The whole thing reminded me of fifth grade kickball, when it was my turn to kick and all the outfielders came up really close thinking I wouldn’t kick far. One time I did though, I kicked that big-ass half-deflated ball way the hell over them, and I made a homerun.

  That was Drake when he beat Pais—knocked him clean in the chin while Pais was joking around and had his guard down. Pais tumbled down, bone over bone like Jenga blocks. Lights out. Drake had won back his belt, but like that time I kicked a homerun during recess, he didn’t feel good about how he’d won.

  Apparently no one else did either. Lucky shot, right? Especially since Drake lost the title again a few months later to an undefeated Jujutsu fighter.

  “I wish I’d never won that belt,” he bellyaches into his glass of wine.

  “You’re only twenty-nine, not like you don’t have time to still prove yourself. Like on those Reddit clips?” That’s another thing—guys’ll come up to Drake and pick fights all the time, often none the wiser that Drake is an actual professional mixed martial artist. He tries to talk them out of sparring with him, for their sake, but some people are just so relentlessly stupid.

  “Twenty-nine is close to retirement age already, you know that.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well I’m not gonna go, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Cop-out,” I accuse.

  “What would you do, babe?”

  “Personally? I’d find some hunky arm candy to go with me and be like, ‘Laugh all you want, suckas! Look who I’m going home with tonight!’”

  “Hmf.” Drake pairs that little sound of interest with a thoughtful expression. “That ain’t a bad idea.”

  “Better whip out your little black book.”

  Drake descends into deep, quiet contemplation the whole rest of the time I cook the lasagna. He sets the table and busts out his cheaper wine.

  At dinner he says, “Come with me,” totally out of left field. “Be my plus-one.”

  “Um…no?” I snark.

  “Why the fuck not?”

  “Because. You cuss too fucking much.”

  “I mean it,” he says.

  “Drake, first of all, I’m not arm candy.” With my four-cheese-lasagna-coated-fork I point to my voluptuous body. “My skinny jeans are a size 14.”

  “I love your curves.” He grins as if he could actually mean it. “And your tits are huge.” There it is.

  I shove the forkful into my mouth and make a face. “No. This needs to be someone you can get all…touchy-feely with”—I pause, then add—Sexually.”

  “I knew what you meant.”

  “You’d have to kiss.”

  “We’ve kissed before.”

  I feel my cheeks instantly warm. “That doesn’t count. You were drunk.”

  “You weren’t.” He fires off that smirk again. It’s so charming and sexy and teasing that my fingers itch to slap it off his pretty-boy face.

  “Thank you for that reminder. Are we done harassing me now?”

  He throws his hands up in surrender. “We can be done. Just say you’ll come with me. Be my fake girlfriend.”

  On one hand, does he realize what the actual fuck he’s asking of me?

  On the other hand, we’ve been friends for twenty years. What’s one night of faking something more?

  I admit the idea excites me as much as it makes me squirm a little.

  “Wou
ldn’t it be weird?”

  “No,” Drake says around a mouthful of food. “This is incredible by the way. D’you do something different?”

  “Thank you. Can we focus?”

  “It’s actually genius, Har. Paparazzi love to get pictures of me dating around, labeling hookups and short-term relationships as here-and-gone. I guess that’s not a total misrepresentation,” he admits. “But you’ve always been in my life, babe. You always will be.”

  “You’re buttering me.”

  “A little. You like it.”

  “A little,” I say, blushing something fierce by now. “I don’t have a dress.”

  “We’ll get you one.”

  Interesting. My non-reply is apparently all the confirmation needed. We change topics and finish dinner, then Netflix and chill with bottom-of-the-barrel wine, all giggles and other lightheartedness.

  When it’s over, I ask him at the door, “How serious are we pretending this is?” gesturing between us.

  “Pretty serious,” Drake says, as if it’s a simple matter of fact.

  “Shouldn’t we lay some ground rules… get our story straight, and stuff?”

  “We should.” He steps in for a hug and then dips his mouth to my cheek to proffer another kiss. If I’m not mistaken this one is longer, softer, warmer than the one before. This one makes my heart pulse a little bit fast, and ushers tingly fuzzies all the way down to my toes. “Thanks for dinner,” he tops off in a low, nice voice.

  “Anytime. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I do.” Drake’s grin reaches the corners of his eyes. “See you Saturday, babe. G’night.”

  “G’night, you.”

  Horrible thoughts assail my mind the whole way home and into my dreams. Fantasies, more like. Featuring Drake. And me.

  And What. The. Fuck.

  Two

  Drake

  This all seemed like a good idea until roughly six minutes into the trying-on-dresses part. My best friend Harlow’s a dang fox, a foot shorter than me, with spellbinding curves that look very nice in charmeuse. Not like I never noticed she was sexy before. But damn, was her hair always so long and thick? Did all her soft places always make me this hard?

  Forty-five minutes and approximately the same number of dresses later—I lost count after she made my head spin with dress number three—Harlow steps out looking both amazing and depressed. My heart trips on something hot when I notice the way her hips sway in the fitted dark-blue/green off-the-shoulder gown, and my heart cracks when my gaze rakes slowly up her body to see that her eyes are filled with tears.

  “Babe.”

  That only makes her start to cry harder. “Why are you doing this to me?” Harlow sobs. “I hate my body in all of these.”

  “You… what?” I practically yell out. “Have you looked in a mirror?”

  “Duh.” She rolls those big dark wet eyes.

  Now I’m confused. This is why I never dated one woman for long. They’re complicated as all get-out. Either Harlow’s fishing for more compliments, a performance she deserves an Academy Award for, or she really doesn’t see how smokin’ she is.

  “If you need me to worship you, just say so.”

  Harlow frowns. “You’re patronizing me?”

  I pull her into my arms. Too happy to have her against me. And a little disturbed I’m having these thoughts. She lets me hold her and finger-comb her hair until her tears dry. She doesn’t even complain when some of the tangles hurt.

  “Not only do you have the most dynamite fuckin’ body I’ve ever seen, Har…but this color…” I slide my hand down to the small of her back, lightly pinching the silk-soft fabric, “…looks beautiful against your skin.”

  “What did you say?”

  “The color. What’s it called, hunter green? Viridian? Spru—”

  “Not that. The other thing.”

  I grin, more’n happy to praise her again. “You look incredible, babe.”

  She looks up at me so her chin presses against my sternum. Her breath on my throat. It’s been some time since I’ve been tempted to kiss those lips. Not because they aren’t kissable. Clearly I’ve been distracted, or foolish, or blind, or something.

  “You’re just saying that because we’re friends, Dray.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I meant it.” I graze my hands up her back, stopping to hold a fistful of her heavy dark hair. “You’re gonna give me a boner wearing this godforsaken dress.”

  “Ew!” She giggles, and playfully smacks my shoulder. Harlow’s adorable when she blushes. “Liar,” she quips.

  “Want me to prove it to you?” I raise an eyebrow. Harlow stops giggling but her cute round cheeks stay red as apples. She clears her throat, and together we step a foot apart.

  Her gaze flickers down and then up as rapidly as a shooting star.

  And now she knows.

  “Dark teal,” Harlow whispers.

  “Mh.”

  “Drake. Focus.”

  I glue my gaze on hers. She’s smiling, and trying and failing miserably to hide it. For a second I think she might’ve been right, it could get weird, now that my dick’s been locked and loaded by the sight of her, and she damn well knows about it.

  “The color of the dress. It’s teal,” Harlow says.

  “Let’s get it.”

  She makes a cagey face at me then goes back to the fitting room to put back on her regular clothes. They aren’t as body-hugging but that image is branded in my head.

  We buy the dress and go out for lunch, somehow avoiding any further awkwardness. We’ve been friends since I can remember. Been through a lot of the ups and downs of growing up together. Probably gonna take a lot more’n my happy nine-inch cock to drive a wedge between us.

  “So what’s our story?” Harlow gets all business, putting on her serious face. “What’re we going to say if people ask about us?”

  “We’ll keep it simple. We met through friends. Had a nice first date, really clicked. All that romantic shit.”

  “What friends?” she probes. “Where’d we go on our first date? How long ago?”

  I scrub my hand down my face. “Okay. Gonna need more time to think about this.”

  “Understood. Let’s just go over some ground rules, that sound easier?”

  “Great idea. You first.”

  “Alright…how ’bout we start with the physical stuff, like, no grabbing my ass at the event, no staring at my tits.” She slides me a look. I frown, hard. “No ruining our friendship. No sex.”

  “If you said at the event to just one of those, that means all the other stuff is on the table for afterward? Before?” I play, except that I’m actually totally serious. “Both?” I add. “Not including the friendship-implosion part. Cuz I dig you. And y’know… I would starve.”

  “Hardy-har-har, Drake.”

  “A’right, a’right,” I surrender. “We’ll have to kiss?”

  “Probably, yeah.”

  “When?”

  “I dunno. Sometime during the ceremony. With witnesses.”

  “Perfect. Let’s have our first real fake-kiss at a splashy event with a hundred other people watching. I’m sure that won’t look unnatural, at all.”

  “You know, you’re right,” she says. “Maybe we should…practice first.”

  I do like the sound of that, and from the impassioned look blazing across her onyx eyes, she’s not hating it either. I pat the empty seat beside me. “C’mere, babe.”

  When Harlow comes over and sits down, I drape my arm across her shoulders. With my other hand I reach for her cheek and affectionately turn her face toward mine. I can feel her heart beating in tandem with my own. It isn’t our first kiss, but this time, I’m stone-cold sober. This time I notice her bottom lip quiver a little. The way she smells. Like cherry vanilla.

  “Ready?” I whisper.

  “I think so.”

  I lean in slow, and lightly press my lips to hers, just a featherlig
ht touch at first, but it feels so nice, so pure, I’m not ready to pull back yet. Gradually, I deepen the kiss. Harlow makes a sweet, breathy noise, as I coax her lips apart, and the world spins in a dizzying circle.

  I shift to cradle her face with both hands now, doing more’n kiss—I’m holding her, worshiping her, seeking her out. Staking my claim. We break apart, both of us breathing hard. We’re out of our minds. This isn’t going to end well, is it?

  I break the silence, eventually. “So no kissing then?”

  She sweeps her lips with the back of her hand, partially hiding a beautiful smile. “Definitely no kissing.”

  Smart woman. I can be a good boy too. I don’t really want to be, but I can try…

  At the event, that is.

  Three

  Harlow

  Holy. Hot. Kiss!!!

  And oh, yes, there were lots more where that came from. Even though we agreed kissing would be against the rules. At the start of the ceremony Drake came in for a chaste peck on the cheek right at the exact moment I was turning to face him. I don’t remember what I was going to say. His lips landed on mine and my brain went black.

  Then, a thing happened. An amendment of sorts, unsaid, but mutually understood. Instead of “no kissing” the rule became “kiss as often as possible every chance we get.” Oh look someone’s coming to talk to us—quick, kiss! Another person won an award, how nice for them—kiss! Hey did you notice so-and-so looking in our general vicinity?—kiss, kiss, kiss!

  It never got old, let me tell you.

  Only Drake’s older brother Krae and some other fighters from their training camp knew the truth and they played along, especially the Irish hunk, Killian, and Sammy “Soldier” Valentine, current Fit to Fight champion in the welterweight division. Good men, all of them.

  We’re in the giddiest of moods now, giggling about anything and everything, but mostly nothing, as we head back inside Drake’s house. We’re being so loud and buoyant his neighbors’ll think we’re sloshed. And I couldn’t care less. My inhibitions are asleep though I didn’t tip back a single sip. Neither did he.