Dragon: A Bad Boy Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  About

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Previews

  Dragon

  © 2016 Danielle Slater, Lena Blackstone

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the authors’ imagination. Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented are aged 18 or over.

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Crowned Heart Publishing

  Author: Danielle Slater

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  Author: Lena Blackstone

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  Visit her on the web: lenablackstone.com and follow her on Facebook & Twitter

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  Chapter One - Dragon

  A thousand people are packed into the space, every one of them screaming and shouting. At this volume, it becomes impossible to separate out the individual voices. They become one voice – the crowd. Tonight, the crowd only has one desire. They have come here to see blood spilled, my blood. I won't let that happen.

  My opponent, their champion, is on the other side of the ring, surrounded by his people. It's quite the entourage – a manager, two trainers, a cut man, and a bouncing, obnoxious figure in a cheap and flashy suit. He has Donald Trump hair, and a gaudy ring on every pudgy finger. I'm not sure what his role is tonight, exactly, but I know who he is. Everyone in this town knows who he is, even the respectable folk.

  "You ready, boy?"

  Paddy is uninterested in the circus across the way. At his age – pushing seventy – he's seen it all before, a thousand times. Over the years, he's taught me that none of it matters, all the pomp and circumstance that some people seem to think is so important. It doesn't matter how many people a fighter has behind him. When the bell rings, you're on your own.

  I focus my thoughts, and begin to size up the other boxer. Physically, he should have the edge. The guy is huge. At six feet tall, I'm not exactly short myself, but he has a good three or four inches on me. That means his reach will be longer. He's bulky, too. His muscles bulge obscenely, and he looks like a caricature of what a fighter should be. There's only one way to get a body like that – he's on the juice. If this were a legal bout, he'd be disqualified and disgraced before he ever got near a ring. Down here, though, the only law is money.

  At two grand, the champion's purse isn't huge. The real money is on the betting, and I know without asking that every dollar in this place is riding on the other guy. And why not? Razor Mikkalsen is a legend on the underground circuit, which is why I chose him. His manager accepted Paddy's offer, because after two years undefeated, Razor is running out of people to fight. The known fighters don't like to get their ass handed to them more than once, and the unknown ones stay unknown after a beating from Razor.

  But not me. This fight will be the beginning of something great.

  “Take him down fast,” Paddy counsels. “No need to give 'em a show.”

  The ring announcer does his thing, as a blonde in a bikini wiggles around the ring. The crowd are whipped into a frenzy, but I don't let it touch me. Out on the street, I'd be letting that blonde wiggle all over me, but as I stand and raise my gloved hands, I barely notice the seductive pout she gives me. There's a small chorus of half-hearted cheers when my name is called. The long odds must have tempted a few people into backing me. But the roar for Razor dwarfs them.

  As we move to square up, I feel a prickle of nerves, because this is the moment. People think that boxing is a physical contest – who can hit the hardest. Even some boxers think that it works that way. But it's not, or at least it's not all of it. I've known the outcome of every fight I ever had before the first bell rang, win or lose. When you look into the other guy's eyes, you know.

  I look into Razor's eyes. He's almost bored, and that's when I know. He's done this too many times, won too many victories. He's not afraid of losing, as he doesn't think it's possible. But if there's one thing I've learned in this hard world, it's that everything is possible. Not in a Disney, 'you can be president of the United States if you want it' way – that shit's for the movies they show on a Sunday afternoon. But everything bad is possible. There's always further to fall. And tonight, Razor will fall. Hard.

  We touch gloves, and as I'm looking up at him, this huge slab of steroid-enhanced muscle, I smile knowingly. I'm gratified to see the neutral expression on his face change, just for a moment. I see the flicker of fear, of doubt, and that's exactly what I needed to see. We back away from each other, waiting for the bell.

  "You got this?" Paddy croaks.

  I wink at him. "I got this."

  The bell rings, and we close. He circles around me, dancing on the balls of his feet. Further proof that he is a fucking idiot. A guy his size will tire easily if he keeps that shit up. I wait, watching him. He's expecting me to make the first move, but Razor Mikkalsen is expecting a lot of things tonight that he is not going to get. I can see the frustration on his face already. Fighting this guy is like making a soup – all the ingredients are in the pot, and now they just need to boil over. He lashes out, aiming for my jaw, but I block him with my left arm. He hits hard – I'm going to feel that punch in the morning, but his anger took away the precision that might have caused me any serious damage. I smile at him again. He looks confused – like a big, stupid bully, wondering why I haven't fallen down.

  And then I begin. I may not be bulky like him, but my lean, hard muscles have been earned through countless hours of training. A punch in the stomach, whip-fast, winds him. I follow it up immediately with a second blow to his chest, and one on his cheek. His eyebrows splits under my glove, and blood drips down onto his face.

  The bell rings – the first round is over. I drop my arms, turning my head, ready to head back to my corner and Paddy. Something flickers on the edge of my vision, and then BAM! I'm seeing stars. Mikkalsen has punched me in the face. For one long moment, the crowd is stunned into silence. And then I hear the first boo.

  "Cheat!" a voice yells.

  More of the crowd take up the chant, among a cacophony of hisses and boos. Dazed, I go back to my corner. On the other side of the ring, Razor is surrounded by his entourage as the ref chews him out. But of course, the fight will go on. There are no disqualifications on the underground circuit.

  Paddy squirts water in my mouth and over my face, and the bell rings again. Round Two. This time, as I move towards him, the crowd are cheering for me. They may have put their money on Razor, but they want a fighter to be proud of, and he has shamed them with the illegal punch.

  With the crowd behind me, my work is done
– he is utterly broken. Every punch is less than the last, and I feed off it, getting stronger and harder with each blow I land. Finally, an upper cut to his jaw puts him on his back. The ref counts him out, and the crowd goes wild as I raise my arms in victory.

  I have won.

  ~~~~~~~

  The dressing room is sparse, but it has everything that I need. And right now, what I need is a shower. Paddy has shuffled off home to Mrs Paddy. He didn't say much after the fight, but I knew he was proud of me. The old man has been training me since I was a kid. His gym isn't one of the flashy, air-conditioned poser gyms that attracts the big bucks, and Paddy himself – withered and stooped with age – doesn't look like much, at least not next to the hard-bodied trainers the other places had.

  I've seen pictures of him in his youth, though. Back then, he was the real deal. He came up on the bare knuckle scene in Belfast, before setting sail for the New World. He is my mentor, everything that I wish my father could be. In a way, he's the only family I ever had. He's taught me that none of the flashiness matters – grit and determination is what a man needs to survive in the world. He's old school, and because of him, so am I.

  The water is hot as it streams down over my head, washing away the sweat and easing my tense muscles. It feels good, and I start to relax. I don't know what will come next, what this victory will bring for me – if it brings anything at all. Right now, I don't care about the future. I just want to enjoy the moment. And the thousand bucks will come in handy, too.

  Finally, I step out of the steam, back into the cooler air of the dressing room. I'm completely naked, reaching for a towel, when the door opens and a girl slips inside.

  "Can I help you?" I say, cocking an eyebrow at her. I'd been half-expecting the ring girl to pay me a visit – that kind of thing happens so frequently that it was considered a perk of the job by most fighters, especially the winners. But this girl - correction, this woman, is in a different league to the bleached, tanned, Barbie dolls that grace the ring.

  She has curves in all the right places, that's for sure, but she's not flaunting them. Her long, dark hair falls down to her full, ripe tits. The simple jeans and T-shirts are fitted, but not painted on.

  "I watched you fight," she says. Her voice is low and rich, and I feel my fully-exposed cock twitch. I don't care about being naked – she walked in on me, and I don't feel that I have anything to be ashamed of in the cock department, anyway.

  She closes the door behind her, turning the latch. Interesting. She lounges against the closed door, the arch of her back making her tits stand out. I can see the bullet points of her nipples against the white cotton fabric.

  I stand there, as casually as if I were wearing a suit, with a knowing look on my face. If she's not going to be embarrassed, then I'm damned if I am. Suddenly, I'm as horny as fuck. Fighting gets your blood up, and there's nothing like a good hard fuck afterwards to round the evening off. I'm almost certain that she is after the same thing. Why else would she come here, and why would she lock the door? But I'm determined not to show my hand first. With a huge effort, I will my cock into submission, fighting against the hard-on that is desperate to appear.

  I keep my voice neutral. "And what did you think?"

  She looks me up and down, slowly, her large blue eyes taking in every inch of my body. A smirk appears on her face. "I like what I see," she says.

  Jesus Christ! I've never met anyone like her before. The confidence, the arrogance, the presumption of her – it's all totally unexpected. I'm used to being the predator, and she is making me feel like the prey. I want to reassert myself, and remind her who's in charge, but my mouth is dry and the effort of not getting hard is becoming too much for me to stand.

  "What do you want?" I say, injecting as much control into my voice as I can.

  She's smirking again. "Isn't it obvious, Dragon?" she says. My name, coming out of those full, plump lips, sounds like a purr. "I want what you want." She nods towards my cock, which has finally betrayed me. I go from semi to fully hard in an instant. I feel like a green boy on his first trip to the whorehouse, but just like in the ring, my instincts take over.

  "You want this?," I say, running my hand over my length.

  She bites her lip and nods, the first sign that she is not in complete control of herself since she walked into my dressing room.

  "Then ask for it," I say, smiling cruelly.

  She raises her head, still leaning against the door, and looks me dead in the eye. "Dragon," she says, "I want your cock."

  I can't hold back any longer. I cross the room in a couple of strides, and then I am on her. I press her body against the door, wrapping my hand around a fistful of silky hair. I wrench her face up to mine, and kiss her, hard and fast. With my other hand, I take her wrist, holding it above her head. She is trapped, pinned - mine.

  She still has one hand free, though, and I feel her long slender fingers wrap themselves around my dick. Not yet, lady. I'm so horny that I could blow my load at any moment, and I haven't had my fill of this girl yet.

  I pick her up effortlessly, and she wraps her legs around my waist, grinding against me. I carry her over to the massage table in the corner of the room, and toss her down on her back none too gently. Her smile tells me that she likes it rough.

  I look down at her, fully clothed, and notice that she is damp with shower water where my body has pressed against her. Her T-shirt has become wet and transparent, and I can see the dark outline of her nipples. She is not wearing a bra. I push the T-shirt up over her head, throwing it to one side, and grab those delicious tits with both hands. She moans as I flick my tongue over one nipple and then the other, nibbling and biting.

  But I have to know more. As I pull back, impatiently yanking off her ankle boots, I can see the glistening wetness that my tongue has left on her tits. I unfasten her jeans, pulling them off in a single motion. She's wearing panties, which is an interesting insight. She's a bad girl on top, with no bra, but down where nobody can see, she's a good girl. They're simple panties, made of bright pink cotton. But the color is darker at her crotch – she's already soaking wet.

  I take one finger, and stroke it along the dark, damp fabric that is all that stands between me and her pussy. She whimpers, pressing against my fingers. I find her clit through the material and work it, and as I do I watch her, enjoying the show. Her pupils are dilated, and her knuckles white where she is gripping the sides of the table. Her breath is becoming ragged, and her tits are bouncing as she writhes and moans. This girl is ready to pop.

  I hear a gasp of dismay as I take my finger away, but quickly I wrap my fist around the top of the panties and pull. With a loud rip, they tear away, and I push her thighs further apart. My cock is aching, and all I want to do is bury it in that sweet, wet pussy, but there's something I want even more than that. I want to feel her come under my tongue.

  I bury my head between her legs, breathing in the delicious musky scent. I start to lick her, gently at first, but getting harder and rougher. She urges me on, moaning and bucking her hips, her fingers raking through my hair, holding me in place. Like I would ever want to stop doing this! Her thighs start to twitch and tremble as she starts to come. I glance up. Her head is thrown back, lost in ecstasy as she shudders and moans, barely able to breathe.

  Now it's my turn. Before she's even stopped shaking, I drag her to the edge of the table. As I kiss her, letting her taste her own juices on my lips, I slam my cock inside her. Jesus Christ! She is tight and warm and wet, her tongue sweet in my mouth. I've never had pussy like this in my entire life, and I have had a lot of pussy. She moves under me, encasing me as I thrust relentlessly into her. I'm dimly aware of her nails raking down my back, hard, but I can barely think. I feel the pressure building in my balls.

  "I'm gonna come," I grunt into her ear. I suppose I'm giving her fair warning in case she wants me to pull out, but in truth I couldn't stop now if a bomb went off.

  "It's okay, it's okay," she pants, and
her words push me over the edge. I feel my cock explode as I start to cum, finally getting the release I've wanted since she walked into the room.

  Eventually, I start to subside, and I stand up. My cock slides out of her with a soft plop, and suddenly I'm exhausted. The fight and the fuck are finally taking their toll. All I need to do now is get home, chug a beer or two, and sleep. I start to get dressed, hoping that she'll take the hint and leave. I hope she won't make a scene as she goes.

  As she hops off the table and finds her clothes, the smirk is back on her face. She kicks the torn panties aside, sliding her jeans up over her bare ass. It's the first time I've seen her from the back, and immediately a picture forms in my mind, of bending her over and slamming her from behind, but I push it away. She may have a fine ass, but I'm not looking for a regular thing. Seeing her again will only give her the wrong impression.

  Now that the haze of lust has cleared a little, I start to notice more about her. The purse that she tossed aside when I first touched her carries a discreet designer logo. I don't know much about women's clothes, but the way they fit tells me that she didn't buy them in the local discount store. Real money, or wannabe? Most of the women who come to these fights are dressed up to the nines, trying to look like they have more than they do. The Real Housewives of Shitville, USA. But this one seems different. She's not screaming cash. The diamond studs in her ears are small, and the watch on her slim wrist isn't flashy or trashy. Looks like I just banged me the genuine article, a rich girl out slumming it for the night.

  That suits me just fine. There's only two types of women on the circuit. The first ones, the Real Housewives, are looking for a long term thing. They're the ones that call and call, turn up everywhere you go, and get into cat-fights with the next girl that comes along. And then you have the princesses. They like to get down and dirty with the rough guys, before jumping into their fancy cars and driving back to their fancy houses. They don't marry guys like me, hell, they don't want to marry guys like me. They marry lawyers and plastic surgeons and move to Orange County. I prefer them because they're no hassle – just a quick and dirty fuck – but at the same time it pisses me off that they see people like me as a novelty, something to laugh about with their rich bitch friends over cocktails. They're using me, but at the same time, I'm using them, so I guess it all works out in the end.