Submission Moves
by
Camilla Sisco
About Submission Moves
They have nothing in common except for one night in Vegas.
Rose Shannon should have known better. One look at the gorgeous and rough-hewn MMA fighter and she should have run in the other direction. Instead she gets into bed with him, and now she can't get him out of her mind.
MMA fighter Niccolo Rossi is used to having women throw themselves at him all the time…until she comes along. A snarky feminist with a huge chip on her shoulder, Rose and her bafflingly infuriating ways should have turned him off completely. Instead he finds everything about her irresistible.
With the attraction between them too strong to withstand, it’s only a question of when she becomes his.
Submission Moves
Copyright © 2014 by Camilla Sisco
Published by Flirt Publishing/Jaded Speck Publishing LLC
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
CHAPTER 1
So a feminist walks into a bar.
A pool bar in Vegas, no less. It sounded like the beginning of a trite joke, but Rose Shannon was living it.
A wild Las Vegas weekend was not what she had in mind when she proposed a little pre-graduation trip to her sorority sisters. She was thinking more along the lines of a quiet cottage by the lake or a secluded beach. As the Social Chair of Delta Pi Gamma, she figured she’d have some sway. But what chance did one assertive feminist have against a whole horde of them? Someone else suggested “Vegas, baby,” and Rose was summarily outvoted. It was a classic case of tyranny of the majority.
They’d worked hard all year and they deserved this, they’d insisted. Even Rose had to agree. Sorority duties, on top of the rigorous academic demands of their prestigious Midwestern university, left them with little room for mindless fun and partying. Not that they were into all that.
The Delta Pi Gamma sorority attracted and accepted only the driven and intense “type A” sort. The sort who self-identified as feminists and were inclined to be loud about it. The sort who didn’t let anything stand in the way of their goals—especially not boys!
Their Greek experience was nothing like those portrayed in movies, as Rose often found herself explaining to her brothers—they loved teasing her about being a sorority girl. But she, for one, had never passed out drunk at a party only to wake up in a strange guy’s bed with no clothes, no memory, and a nasty venereal disease. That’s what happened to a friend of a friend of a girl in her Queer Theory class.
Rose did a lot of community outreach and volunteer work for the local women’s shelter and, in a month’s time, she would graduate with full Latin honors. She hadn’t managed all that by spending weekends with frat boys at keg parties.
It was a bad idea from the start, letting loose eleven sheltered, possibly repressed college girls in Sin City. Perhaps it was their impending graduation. Perhaps it was the sheer novelty of being in a place where no one knew who they were. Perhaps it was Vegas itself. Perhaps all three. Whatever it was, the moment their plane touched down that morning, Rose sensed the palpable change in her normally sensible and uptight friends. They seemed to have acquired a collective itch to shed their college selves and do something out of character—if not totally crazy. She felt it too, but to a lesser degree. She drew the line at getting a tattoo or hooking up with a stranger. But she did want to gamble a little and maybe get stupid drunk on overpriced cocktails. Ooh, scandalous.
The pool bar and lounge was set atop their hotel’s 15th floor roof deck and was, according to some Vegas websites, the trendiest spot on The Strip. But at the ungodly hour of two in the afternoon, it was a tranquil space with plush cabanas, potted palm trees, and a gorgeous infinity pool overlooking the Las Vegas Strip skyline. The speakers blasted out some hypnotic trance music and the paltry crowd of single and ready to mingle types hung out at the edge of the pool or in it, flirting or just eye-fucking each other.
Rose was single, to be sure, but ready to mingle, not so much. Giving the males in the area a cursory assessment, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. Shirtless dudebros with torsos bronzed and sculpted to perfection were not exactly her thing. The likes of her didn’t seem to be their thing either. No heads deigned to turn as she made her way to the bar to order.
Anywhere else in the world Rose might be considered cute. But in Vegas, with its profusion of gorgeous, skinny, leggy blondes, her dark brown hair and eyes and plump 5’4” frame simply did not pass muster.
Fine by her. She never pictured meeting the proverbial Mr. Right in a Vegas pool bar anyhow. And contrary to what her own mother would say, male attention was not some prize worthy of pursuit and marriage was not the be all and end all of a woman.
“Appletini, please,” she said when she finally caught the bartender’s eye.
“Certainly. May I see some ID?” said the beefy guy with an overly bright smile.
“Oh, I don’t have one with me, but I’m staying in this hotel. If you could just check—”
“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking it, “I can’t serve you without an ID.”
Oh, the irony. That very moment her sisters were off to some seedy part of town procuring fake IDs while she, one of the few in the group who was legally allowed to drink, was being carded. She could argue her case, but there were other people waiting for their turn to order and they didn’t look like a patient bunch. Far be it for her to deprive people of their alcohol. With a huff of disdain, she turned and left. Too early to be drinking anyway.
****
He was born on St. Patrick’s Day so although he was about as Italian as gelato, they all liked to say he had the luck of the Irish. But even if Niccolo Rossi did believe in luck, which he didn’t, he wouldn’t put much stock on it. Luck was a lady, they say, because it was fickle and it couldn’t—shouldn’t—be counted on. Nick preferred to take life in his own calloused hands and make shit happen. Get shit done.
He didn’t know if he was, as people loved telling him, destined for great things. But he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would make it big. The way he saw it, it was all about working your ass off, keeping your eyes on the prize, and not making dumb decisions. Simple, but not always easy.
Those who called him lucky knew jack shit of his sacrifices, nothing of the long hours he spent training, or the blood, sweat, and tears it took to be good at what he did.
It wasn’t dumb luck that got him where he was now, in Las Vegas, hours away from making his professional debut as a cage fighter for the biggest fight promotion in the world. That was unheard of. Most guys out there with dreams of going pro as a mixed martial artist never made it out of the amateur circuit. Those that did end up spending a good part of their viable fighting years in smaller organizations for shitty pay. If they amassed enough impressive wins then maybe, just maybe, they’d get tapped by the big leagues.
In a few hours, Nick was going to get the biggest paycheck of his life—win or lose. He was going to win, of course, which meant a generous bonus and a lucrative contract. He was also handsome and charismatic—no use for false modesty, and the fans loved him. Endorsement deals wouldn’t be far along, which meant even more money.
Not bad for a t
hird generation Sicilian immigrant from Chicago’s rough Southside. Not bad at all. But not nearly good enough. Nick was a man with very big plans, all of which hinged on his getting the W tonight. Most men would choke from the pressure, but he had learned to leverage it. Tonight was just another fight, just another knock-out his brother would add to his highlight reel and release online.
“You nervous, Nicky?”
He gave his brother Angelo a smile radiating with confidence. “Fuck yeah, I am. Nervous is good. It keeps me alert. Why do you look nervous? You’re not the one stepping into that cage tonight.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Angelo said with a lopsided grin. He was lying, Nick could tell. Taking a break from last-minute warm-ups to grab a quick meal at the hotel’s pool bar was a good idea. His whole damn team needed a break. They were driving him crazy with all their fretting.
“Relax, bro. Enjoy the moment. We’re in Vegas. The sun is out. We’re surrounded by fine pieces of ass—” The rest of the sentence died in his throat. His eyes narrowed, fixed on something—or someone on the other side of the bar.
“Aw, shit,” Angelo muttered. He’d seen that look on Nick’s face countless of times. “Nicky, you got a fight tonight. Shouldn’t you be concentrating on that?”
Nick gave his brother a look of smug superiority. “When I start losing fights, I’ll start taking advice from you, how ‘bout that?” He clapped Angelo on the shoulder and slid off the barstool. “This won’t take long.”
Luck was a lady, they said. If there was any truth to that, then that would explain his supposed good fortune. The ladies loved Nick Rossi. And he loved them right back.
****
Rose chose an empty lounger farthest away from the crowd and tossed her book onto it. Looking around surreptitiously, she unfastened the sari that covered her from the waist down.
No one is looking at you, chill!
As far as bikinis went, her red retro-style number was downright modest, especially compared to what the other women were wearing. Still, she fussed and tugged to make sure she didn’t expose any more skin than she had to.
Finally settled, she opened her copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion and began reading where she’d left off. Just as Captain Wentworth was in the middle of his impassioned declaration of love, a shadow fell across the page.
She looked up, squinting and annoyed. A guy stood looming above her at a respectful enough distance, but whose sheer size made him seem closer and taller.
And he was quite tall.
Tall. And dark. And…oh, Lord. Well, it was a cliché for a reason.
CHAPTER 2
Handsome wasn’t a word Rose often heard in casual conversations. Nor did she use it much. “Cute” and even the occasional “hot” had always sufficed. Handsome was such an old-fashioned and dignified word, it never quite fit any of the brilliant but bumbling nerds or the interchangeable clean-cut preppies of her social circle.
This man though, he looked like the very word had been invented with him in mind. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin devoid of the hideous tell-tale orange tinge of spray-ons. And his face, dear God, his face looked like it had been chiseled from marble by an old master—straight nose, strong jaw, and a perfect pillow lip pout. A study in symmetry.
Heat pooled deep in Rose’s belly and her pulse started to race. She’d heard about this happening to other girls, had seen it in movies and read it in books. It had never happened to her before, certainly not to this paralyzing extent. But instinctively she knew what it was. It was pure, unadulterated lust at first sight. And it was the headiest, most potent thing she’d ever had to process.
He hadn’t been among those men she’d spied by the pool earlier. For one, he was fully dressed. His broad shoulders and chest were regrettably concealed beneath a white shirt with a scary-looking graphic print, and his long legs were encased in a pair of dark track pants.
“Hi,” he said, his voice a deep, rich baritone with a slight husky timbre.
A shiver jolted through Rose’s body. “Can I help you?” she asked in a voice she fought very hard to keep impassive.
A corner of his lips quirked. “I was thinking maybe I could help you.”
The glamour of that sudden half-smile just about turned her stupid. He cold help himself to her eggs anytime. Those were her ovaries talking, silly things. One look at this perfect specimen of manhood and the reptilian part of her brain was now commanding her to spread her legs wide open and make babies with him.
He lowered himself to a sitting position on the empty lounger next to hers, legs spread and elbows resting atop his thighs.
Don’t look at his crotch. Do not look at his crotch.
With the sun no longer behind him and with a conscious effort to keep her gaze from roaming too low, Rose studied his face. Dammit, he was even more handsome upon closer inspection. A rarity. He was so handsome Rose forgot to breathe, but her mind raced with thoughts of how she must look to him sprawled out on the lounger like that. How very unflattering the angle must be on her stomach and her hips and thighs. Oh shit, her thighs. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles self-consciously.
That sudden movement caught his attention and his eyes darted to her feet. With no attempt at subtlety, he let his gaze skim upward, slow and appraising, pausing where flesh met the V of her bikini top. There, it lingered. A little too long, in Rose’s opinion. When he finally raised his eyes back to hers, the merest suggestion of a smirk that played on his lips slowly broadened into a panty-shredding grin. He knew that she knew that he’d been staring at her breasts, and he didn’t look the least bit guilty about it.
Her chest had been an area of great interest for boys since she was thirteen years old. She was, to put it bluntly, stacked. God help anyone stupid enough to get caught staring, because Rose always had a brutal tongue lashing ready.
But now, even if she had been so inclined, she was too stunned by the shameless way he had checked her out to take any offense. Too stunned and too turned on.
“I’m Nick. Nick Rossi,” he said, flashing another smile with more wattage than the last.
After a moment’s hesitation, Rose took his proffered hand and watched as his rough, calloused grip swallowed hers whole. She was too intimidated to do anything else. Not a feeling she was used to. Rose was not a shy girl. She’d been called argumentative, assertive, and all its other iterations. She was no simpering miss. Not usually.
“What’s your name?” he asked after a few beats when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to volunteer it.
“Rose Shannon.”
“Well, Rose Shannon, I noticed you at the bar earlier. I would’ve talked to you then but you ran off so quickly.”
Before she could even think of a reply, a waitress materialized to plop a martini glass and a bottle of water on the table between them. Nick thanked her with a smile and she retreated just as discreetly.
“You wanted an appletini, right? I figured if you were under 21, you wouldn’t go anywhere without your fake ID. Not in Vegas.” He reached for his bottled water and unscrewed the cap. “But, I gotta say, you do look like you’re about 12 years old. Except for some parts. Some parts you’re all woman.” To his credit, his gaze didn’t drop to her chest after he said that, but he did give her a wicked smile.
She should be offended. She ought to dump the drink on his lap. At the very least, she should walk away. But his stare held her frozen in place. It wasn’t leering or sleazy, Rose didn’t think. Just openly flirtatious. Definitely interested, he left no doubt about that. She’d never had a guy look at her quite in that way before.
“I promise I just wanna buy you a drink. I’m not some weirdo,” he said when Rose still didn’t say anything. “You can look me up on the Internet or something. Niccolo Rossi.”
Because she had yet to think of something clever or charming to say, she did the only other thing she could and reached for the cocktail. She took a long sip, hoping the alcohol would help loosen her tongue.
&nbs
p; Taking that as his cue that his presence wasn’t totally unwanted, he leaned closer and asked, “You here with your boyfriend? Girlfriends? Family?”
“My sisters,” Rose said. “Sorority sisters.”
“Sorority sisters in Vegas, huh?” he repeated with a naughty glint in his eyes. She could guess the sort of “girls-gone-wild” scenarios playing in his head. Good. Let him think that.
She studied him over another long sip of her cocktail. His eyes were a rich deep brown—like hers, framed by thick spiky lashes—also like hers. It was what Rose liked most about herself physically. Seeing it on this guy was a bit jarring. It rendered him quite pretty, an incongruity on his otherwise utterly masculine physique. He could be a model, as gorgeous as he was, but Rose was getting very strong jock vibes.
He stared right back at her, welcoming her scrutiny. At least he didn’t have double standards when it came to ogling.
“What would I find if I looked you up online?” she finally asked.
“I’m Niccolo Rossi, 25, a mixed martial artist with an amateur record of 12 and zero, all by KOs on the first round. Born and raised in Chicago, but fighting out of and currently a resident of Sacramento, California.”
Chicago. She almost said something at that. She was from Chicago too, born and raised. She planned on moving back after graduation.
“Never been arrested. No sex tapes or dick pics going around, not that I know of,” he added with a sheepish smile. “What about you? What would I find if I looked you up?”
Her social media accounts were as private as it could get, but surely the World Wide Web carried records of her geekery, or the causes she was involved with. It would be on local news sites or interest group blogs. But she felt uncommonly reluctant bringing those up while being flirted with by Niccolo Rossi.
Submission Moves: An MMA Romance Page 1
