Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1)

by Holly Hart

  I came back down to the mattress with a thump which slightly knocked the wind out of me, but Conor didn't give me so much as a second to recover, leaning forward and kissing the back of my neck with his lightly bristled face, groping my ass hungrily and tracing the outline of my pussy.

  His hands seemed to have a boundless energy, roaming across every inch of my skin with a speed, firmness and dexterity that left me crying out with pleasure. He massaged tension out of my neck that I didn't even know existed with hands made strong through years of training.

  Conor laid a trail of kisses down from the back of my neck to the belt loop of my jeans, accompanying it either side with the gentlest of scratches from his fingernails. He concentrated his attention on my sensitive lower back with a torturous slowness. He seemed to remember every inch of my skin like it was his own, and to know every little thing that made my orgasm tick.

  He flipped me over once more, my back a sea of fiery pleasure, and unbuttoned my denim jeans with a practiced ease. Excited beyond belief, with a fire burning between my legs, I tried to help him pull them off, kicking out, but he grabbed my legs and stilled them easily, swiftly yanking the pants off my legs, where they too joined the rest of my clothes on the floor.

  Christ, I haven't shaved my legs in weeks. Or down there in…much longer.

  But once again, Conor didn't seem to care. I raised my eyes to the ceiling and thanked the heavens that he couldn't see all the little imperfections, the curves and stretches through the darkness. They were there thanks to a life that had treated me far harder over the past four years than I could ever have imagined.

  I resolved that when, or if, I managed to escape my minders once again to spend time with Conor, I'd come prepared. A bikini wax, shaved legs and, at the very least, matching underwear!

  "This isn't fair," I moaned through the waves of pleasure beginning to pulsate between my legs, "I'm practically naked and you're –"

  Conor didn't let me finish. He ripped his t-shirt off his head and tossed it to one side, revealing a torso that, from what little of it I could see through the gray darkness that filled the room, didn't have so much as an ounce of fat on it. I reached up, caressing his taut body with a wondering expression on my face, studying his impressive frame through the sparse light from Alexandria's nighttime glow that filtered through the thin string curtains.

  "Better?" He grinned cheekily.

  "What are the scars from –." I asked, cutting myself off – suddenly and irrationally nervous that by bringing up his imperfections, the ones I wanted to keep hidden would be revealed as well.

  "These?" He asked, looking down. "Who knows. Who cares. We've got better things to be doing than talking about some bar-brawl scar I got years ago."

  As I let out a sigh of relief, Conor unbuckled his heavy leather belt and yanked his jeans down, leaving them hanging off one leg with his thick cock poking its way out of his thin boxer shorts.

  He leaned forward, kissed me fiercely, and enveloped my firm breasts with his thick, powerful hands. His palms were softer than I expected, or perhaps he simply moved more gently than a man with his scarred, intimidating demeanor had any right to.

  I sighed again, this time with sheer pleasure as a bolt of electricity traveled from each nipple down and met in between my legs, where a fire was building – a fire that begged to be released.

  A strange, powerful, guttural growl grumbled in Conor's throat as he looked down at my half-naked body. I wanted to hide, felt as though I must have put on a dozen pounds – and a couple more marks too – since he'd last seen me like this, but his face didn't register so much as a hint of dismay. His eyes glinted even through the darkness with a fiery need, and he looked at me like I was the first woman he'd ever laid eyes on. It was a hungry, possessive look, and it made me feel wanted.

  "Please, Conor." I begged for the second time. This time, though, I knew what I wanted him to do. "Fuck me, will you?"

  I pushed my hands into his soft, dark red hair as he replied. "I thought you'd never ask."

  He kicked off the pants leg which was still stubbornly attached to his left leg, and fell forward on top of me, gently cushioning the drop with his powerful forearms. I gasped as our heads came within an inch of clashing against each other, but he just grinned – indicating to me that he'd never even come close to losing control of his body. I believed him. Even when we met as teens, Conor had been precociously in command of both his body and his mind.

  It hadn't been easy, back then, to break down the walls he'd constructed to protect his emotional well-being after years spent scrapping away on the streets to put food on the table, but I'd managed it.

  Once.

  I wondered if it would even be possible a second time. For all the pent-up sexual energy coursing through the pair of us, I couldn't help but notice that Conor was holding himself somehow separate, apart.

  He kissed me, banishing the thought from the front of my mind. It stayed rooted somewhere deep in my brain.

  His hand traced its way down my body and toward the burning center between my legs. This time it traveled fast, unhesitatingly, and he thrust his hands under the soft material of the old pair of panties that were desperately preserving what remained of my modesty. I clenched my legs together, embarrassed of the bush of hair that I knew had grown between them, but he pushed aside my last minute resistance with a chuckle.

  He stroked the hair gently. "I don't mind it," he whispered into my ear, then bit down on my lip as he pushed his index finger between my legs – and into me.

  I gasped. "Conor…"

  He took my reaction as approval, and it was. My legs parted as though he'd asked them to, but the fact was that I simply couldn't have resisted him for even another second. My mind had imagined this moment every night for years, and ever since I saw Conor's face in the octagon earlier this evening, even through all my worry, I'd barely been able to think about anything else.

  Conor slowly buried his finger two knuckles deep inside me, grabbing the soft flesh of my ass with his left hand and grazing it gently with his fingernails. He leaned forward and kissed my cheek, his bristly facial hair scraping deliciously against my soft skin, and I couldn't help but thrust my hips forward and open my legs for him to use however he wanted.

  He did.

  I'd half-worried that after so many years without a man that maybe things wouldn't work down there, but I needn't have – I was as wet as I'd ever been. My pussy was on fire, quivering as every one of the thousands of nerve endings that surrounded my wet slit screamed out for attention. Conor gave it to them. Slowly, delicately he inserted another finger inside me, and his thick digits satisfied me in a way that my own never could.

  When I saw to my own needs, I knew exactly what I was about to do, and what was about to happen.

  Conor, though was as unpredictable as he was practiced.

  He was like a force of nature, but one that knew exactly how my body would react to his ministrations, and one that never allowed it to relax. Every time I thought the waves of pleasure were about to subside, he altered the angle at which his fingers were probing the soft, delicate folds between my legs, or the speed at which his thumb was pressing against my pulsating clit, and drove me to another height of pleasure.

  "I need you," I begged with an urgency in my voice that surprised even me. "Inside me, now."

  It didn't seem as though he'd heard me – or if he had, he wasn't paying me any notice. I felt like I was running on Conor's time, not the other way round. He was calling the shots, not me. I felt powerless in the face of this man, who had such power over himself that he could resist a temptation, no – an invitation like that.

  He yanked my panties off, tossing them aside in no particular sense of hurry, and the sensation of the old cotton simply brushing against the soft skin of my inner thighs made my entire body squirm with unexpected pleasure, my legs clenched together, and my mouth fell open to let out a gasp of delight. And then Conor did something I simply hadn'
t expected – he lowered his mouth to the dripping slit between my legs.

  I'd been prepared for him to continue his delicious, unbearable assault with his fingers.

  I'd been prepared for him to flip me over, pull me onto my knees and enter me from behind.

  I'd even been ready, half-willed him to grab the back of my head and pull my head down onto his cock. Hell, I could almost taste the salt in his pre-come on the back of my tongue.

  But I hadn't been prepared for this.

  My legs fell away as I simply lost control – what little control I had left – of my body. The things Conor could do with his tongue were almost indescribable. It was difficult to put into words how good he made me feel, especially as my head was pushed back with agonizing pleasure and my jaw was clenched in a lost, futile attempts not to cry out with pleasure.

  Conor used his tongue with all the precision of a lifelong trumpet player, like the soft, wet muscle had been strengthened and honed over the course of years of practice. And it was all for me.

  "Jesus," I whispered. I felt bad for blaspheming, but it was all I could say.

  "You're saying it wrong, love," he growled in that knee-clenchingly sexy Irish accent of his. "It's jay-sus…"

  I could only moan in reply.

  His tongue tickled and teased and tensed and probed at the soft, wet lips of my pussy until I grabbed his head and pushed it in. I couldn't help but think how glad I was that he wasn't the kind of man who felt that going down on a woman was beneath him. Hell, it was almost as though Conor was the complete reverse – he lived for this. Judging by the thick, engorged cock hanging lustily between his legs,

  I reached out, desperately searching for the his thick member, but my hands closed only on empty air.

  "Please, Conor…" I begged.

  I need you inside me, I didn't say. I didn't need to. He got the message.

  "You don' ask," he grinned, limbering his way up my body, lingering for a short, sweet second over my breasts, where his mouth closed for a half second around one of my nipples, flicking that well-practiced tongue over my sensitive nubs. "You don' get."

  "I'll bear that in mind," I panted, interlacing the fingers on my right hand into his hair and pulling him as hard as I could up toward my face. He didn't resist, and pushed using those thick, muscular thighs until her lips were only

  I kissed him, taking my own sweet, tangy taste on his lips. I felt naughty, filthy, depraved. I felt like I was becoming the person I'd always wanted to be, like Conor was giving me an excuse to break out of my shell, to throw aside every boundary and every self-imposed rule that had ever held me down.

  Speaking of holding me down… I thought.

  Conor grabbed my hands and shoved them above my head. I struggled briefly against his powerful grasp, but only for show. I was ready for this. I wanted it more than anything.

  He took his cock in his hand and pressed it between my thighs, pushing its enormous head against the soaking wet lips of my pussy. I moaned as he teased it up and down my entrance. I wanted to beg him to stop, but I knew better than that. I knew that he would only delight in making me wait, and making me suffer.

  This was Conor's show, and it was the only one in town.

  He pushed himself inside me, thrusting an inch, no, half an inch at a time, pushing inside me with a delicious, delicate slowness that tested the very fabric of my being. My hips bucked forward of their own accord, desperately trying to feel his heat and his length inside me. He chuckled to himself, and, pushed up against him, a deep, luxurious growl rumbled through me as he did so. I brushed my cheek against his, luxuriating in the feeling of his soft stubble scratching against me as I turned my head.

  Conor buried his cock as deep into my pussy as he could. And then he let loose.

  Delicious tremors of electricity sparkled through my body every time his hips came crashing down against mine. I was ready to come, more ready than I'd ever been, and I couldn't wait to fail him climax inside me.

  There was little enough of my brain matter still functioning under Conor's thrusting assault, since every time he pushed his thick cock further between my slit, every time he drove me closer to my impending orgasm, I almost blacked out with the pleasure.

  But I didn't need to be Einstein to know one thing. This wasn't the same Conor I'd known. That Conor had been a boy. This one was a man.

  "I'm getting close," I panted, looping my arm around his torso and, without meaning to, digging my nails into his skin. I just needed to get a grip on something, anything.

  This Conor was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. He was relentless and probing, experienced yet still with all the energy and enthusiasm of a pubertal teenager. He was a force of nature: a hurricane, a tornado, or even a chemical reaction of pent-up sexual energy – and I was his catalyst.

  Conor grunted – the only response he could give in the midst of his own building orgasm. He was single-minded and dedicated in his pursuit of release – but he never forgot my needs. He kept his thumb on my clit, holding down with a constant pressure and pushing it toward his thick, hard cock in a gentle but relentless circular motion as he thrust in and out of me, never breaking rhythm, nor pausing to catch his breath.

  All those hours, months, and years of training, day after day in the ring were finally bearing fruit, though perhaps not for the reason that had been intended. Conor had a race horse's stamina. There was no chance he was simply going to leave me high and dry, I felt like he could keep thrusting for days.

  I wouldn't tire of it – especially not after this long without a man, but I knew one thing: there was no way I'd last that long…

  Electric shocks of pleasure now seemed to burst from my clit, unbidden, at the start of a journey racing toward every burning nerve ending in my body, and the heat between my legs was almost unbearable. This was it. I couldn't wait another second – my orgasm was coming, and nothing was going to stop it. I grabbed Conor's ass, pulling toward me – pulling him deeper inside me. It was a vain effort – like I could ever hope to hold back his powerful thrusts – but it told him everything he needed to know.

  It was time.

  "Don't stop!" I gasped.

  "Just." A breath.

  "Keep." Another.

  "Doing." One last.

  "That!"

  Conor seemed to take it as encouragement, rather than as a slight on his efforts. He was a bad boy, sure, but that didn't mean he wasn't attuned to his partner's wants and desires – and that meant me.

  I wished I could see him from behind, wished I could see the knotted muscles on his thick back clenching and tensing every time he drove forward, powerfully, into me; I wished I could see the sweat dripping off his shoulder blades. As the pleasure began to build inside my mind, casting me off from all rational thought, my brain began to conjure a fantasy in which, unbelievably, Conor and I owned our own home, living together in some kind of perverted marital bliss with a mirror on the bedroom ceiling.

  That was the thought that did it – the thought that pushed me over the edge into a final, sensual, world-melting climax. I felt my pelvic muscles clenching around his thick cock – doing their best to hang on, to hold his scorching hot prick inside me and never let it go.

  I felt Conor's climax like a wave of heat exploding inside my body, so much heat I wondered if it would ever end, or whether it would just keep building within me, adding to the endless, relentless waves of heat already present inside me. He clutched reflexively at me, his fingers digging into my shoulder blades so powerfully in the delirious state of fugue that it almost brought tears to my eyes.

  I didn't care. I'd dreamed of this moment for so long that a few slight bruises on my peach-like skin was nothing – a small, meaningless price to pay.

  Conor sank back down on his forearms, finally allowing his huge, muscular bulk to rest, and for a few long seconds neither of us said a word – the room's only soundtrack the occasional, ragged punctuation of deep, restorative breaths.

 
"Shit," he finally panted. "That was incredible. Shit."

  As I lay with my ear pressed against Conor's chest, half-drugged by the hormonal release of a mind-bendingly powerful climax and in the process of being lulled to sleep by his somnolent, slowing heart beat, my fingers absent-mindedly stroking the soft hair on his thick, scarred chest, my mind felt a peace and solitude I hadn't felt in all these years of loneliness.

  It didn't last. Of course it didn't last.

  BANG!

  A sudden crash disturbed us, startling Conor, who leapt to his feet, stark naked, like a soldier with PTSD. He crouched on the floor, every muscle in his back rippling and bulging and stared at the door, prepared for someone to burst through it at any moment.

  Dad!

  Amongst the condition of sheer panic, that was the only coherent thought in my mind – and the more I considered it, the more I came to the conclusion that there was no other possibility; my father had realized that I'd slipped my minders and escaped from his control, and worse, he'd somehow realized I was here.

  Did he know that Conor was the reason he'd dragged me away from Dublin in tears?

  I stopped dead in my tracks, a far worse thought intruding on my mind. Was Conor's very appearance in Alexandria a simple coincidence, or was something even more nefarious at play?

  Was this all just one of my father's sick games?

  And if so, was Conor in on it?

  9

  Conor

  I’d fucked her because I could.

  Because it was easier than actually coming to terms with what she was saying – what it all meant.

  I’d fucked her because I needed to shut her up, because screwing her was easier for me to cope with than talking about what I felt.

  What the hell does that say about me?

  I cocked my ear toward the bathroom, checking that I could no longer hear the tell-tale sounds of old, steam-swollen wood scraping against the window frame, or the harsh clacking of the metal catch unlocking to let a woman’s half-naked body climb out.