Dragon: A Bad Boy Romance (2 page)

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.

She's dressed now, and she's staring at me, looking uncomfortable. She's bracing herself for the awkward conversation where we each tell the other that we have no interest in doing this again, ever. I clear my throat, ready to speak, but before I can speak, someone tried the door. It's still locked, and a fist hammers impatiently.

“Hey! Open up in there!” a man's voice yells.

She turns, eyes wide with alarm.

“Don't open it,” she whispers.

Yeah, just as I suspected. She doesn't want to be caught in the boxer's dressing room, flushed from fucking him.

“It's a little late to turn coy, sweetheart,” I say. “But if you're so fucking embarrassed, there's a fire exit back there.”

She looks like she's going to say something, but the hammering on the door starts up again.

“Bye,” she says, and with that, she slips out of the fire exit and out of my life. I realize that I never even got her name.
Ah well, who cares?

~~~~~~~

I move to unlock the door, before it gets kicked in. Clearly, someone wants to talk to me very much. I know it's not Razor, fixing for an impromptu re-match – he has some kinda European accent, Swedish or Russian or some shit. The guy hollering outside sounds local.

“Jesus Christ, what were you doing? Taking a shit?”

The man with the Donald Trump hair pushes past me and begins to make himself comfortable.

“Please, come in, Mr Freeman,” I say through clenched teeth, my neutral tone masking the sarcasm.
I could be in deep shit here.
I beat his guy, and of all the money that was riding on the fight, you can bet that Tony Freeman had the biggest stake.

A couple of his goons are hovering outside, and I close the door on them. I'm tempted to lock it again, to create a barrier between me and them in case this visit means trouble, but I don't want to seem aggressive right out of the gate. Tony Freeman is not a man to be fucked with, and everyone in this town knows it. He's not much to look at – short and fat – but he has a pudgy finger in every criminal pie going. When people talk about Tony Freeman, they always say that he's
connected,
the word whispered with a nervous glance over the shoulder
.
I've seen him around, but I've never spoken to him before. I'm way too small-time for him.

“So,” he says, settling his fat ass on the massage table. “You won.”

He's looking at me shrewdly, and I get the sense that underneath the jovial, friendly exterior and comedy hair, this guy is extremely fucking dangerous. He sees everything, misses nothing. I need to be careful here. No more sarcastic remarks.

“Yes,” I say, “I did.”

“Why?”

It's tempting. My mouth wants to run away with me, and give him a snarky answer. But in the end, I go for the truth. If I end up with a beating, at least I'll know I didn't bring it down on my own head.

“The bottom line is, Mr Freeman, I won because Razor lost.”

I pause, looking at his face, trying to gauge his reaction. He waves a hand, urging me to continue, his mean little eyes never so much as blinking.

“Razor Mikkalsen has won every fight for the last two years. He thinks he's unbeatable, and that's made him complacent.” I say.

“Complacent? That's a fancy word for a boxer,” he remarks. I ignore the dig.

“He expects to win, so he's phoning it in. All the advantages he has – the height, the reach – stop working for him. He's beatable
because
he's unbeatable. And that's why I beat him.”

I stop talking and wait. It's time for him to show his hand. Discreetly, I look around the room, searching out anything that could be used as a weapon if this goes south. He's carrying a gun, I'm sure, but if I managed to knock him out before he could draw, then perhaps I could get away. I glance at the fire exit. Six paces. If I whack him with the fire extinguisher...

Freeman smiles. He looks like a shark that just scented blood, maybe in a kiddy pool.

“And, you saw all this, did you? That's why you requested the fight?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You see a lot,” he says.

I tense as he reaches into his jacket pocket. Slowly, deliberately, he draws something out. Something dark, cylindrical...

“Mind if I smoke?”

He's smirking as he puts the cigar to his fleshy lips, and I try not to sigh with relief.

“Yeah, Dragon, you see a lot. I like that. I see a lot, too,” he says, flicking his lighter. I notice he never actually waited to see if I minded the smoke.

“For instance,” he continues, “I see that you were deciding to bash me over the head with that extinguisher and then fuck off out of the fire exit, if I pulled a piece on you. But you waited to see what this was, before you made your move. You're cautious, and you're in control of yourself.”

He waves the cigar in the air.

I don't speak. I don't know what to say, and I'm sure as fuck not going to admit that I was considering battering Tony Freeman.

“Is that where the broad went? Out the fire exit?”

I narrow my eyes. “You had people watching the dressing room?”

He laughs, and it sounds genuine.

“Relax, kid. I
saw
.”

He hops off the table and picks something up from the floor. The shredded remains of the pink panties. I feel a stab of revulsion as he sniffs them, before tossing them at me. I'm starting to lose patience with this arrogant man.

“With respect, Mr Freeman, it's late and I'm tired. What can I do for you?”

“I'm sure you are. You've had a very busy evening,” he grins. “I'll cut to the chase. I want you to work for me.”

My heart sinks. If Tony Freeman wants me, I'm not going to be able to say no. Not if I enjoy breathing, anyway. With that one sentence, he now owns my ass.

“If you want me to fight for you, then you need to know that I'm not gonna throw a fight. Not ever.” I say, and mean it. I don't have much in this world, and I've done some pretty unconscionable things to get by, but I respect the fight too much to cheat.

“I wouldn't expect you to,” he says, amused. “I won't be paying you to box. You're going to be doing something far, far more important than that...”

Chapter Two - Honey

I close the fire door as quietly as I can, but even so, the metallic clang seems to echo across the deserted parking lot.
Shit!
I think, cringing. I wonder how much time I have before the boxer, Dragon, gives me up. Not long, maybe only a couple of seconds. It's not like he owes me anything, and my father knows how to get a man to talk. I slip my heels off and run full-pelt to my car, wincing as the gravel digs into my bare feet. After I am safely behind the steering wheel, I risk a look back. The door is still closed. I take a second to brush the pebbles from the soles of my feet before I spin off into in the night, heart racing.