Dragon: A Bad Boy Romance

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

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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.
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Published by Crowned Heart Publishing

Author: Danielle Slater

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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?"